


A Prince's Ruin

by TangerineSock



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Porn, Brainwashing, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Forced Feminization, Forced Marriage, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Incest, M/M, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, Parent-Child Relationship, Parent/Child Incest, Porn With Plot, Protective Azula (Avatar), Public Humiliation, Sexual Abuse, Unreliable Narrator, Zuko (Avatar)-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27020848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TangerineSock/pseuds/TangerineSock
Summary: Madness had always been a silent companion to the royal family.With Ursa gone, Ozai turns to her son, and something inside him snaps, an ugly idea that coils in his mind like a snake and tells him to make something unspeakable of his son.Prince Zuko dissappears in the eve of his father's coronation, and in his stead, the servants gossip about the new wife Firelord Ozai seems to keep secluded in his rooms.
Relationships: Azula & Iroh (Avatar), Azula & Piandao (Avatar), Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Azula/Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Piandao (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Ozai & Zuko (Avatar), Ozai/Zuko (Avatar), Piandao & Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 276
Kudos: 543





	1. The Son

**Author's Note:**

> So, do you ever enter a fandom and think to yourself: Hmm, could do with a little more badwrong fuckiness.

When everything was said and done, Fire Lord Ozai was sure it had at least been, in part, Zuko's fault.

Ursa was gone, and with her departure so came all the things he had spent all of his life chasing for. 

A victory over his brother, the fall of his father, the departure of a distant wife, and more importantly, the throne.

For some reason, even that left him less than satisfied.

Ursa too had been, once, one of his selfish desires.

Ever since he'd seen her perform on a play, she had become part of the treasure he was sure belonged to him by birthright. Beautiful, stubborn, kind, and more importantly, carrying the blood of avatar Rokku in her veins. 

He'd wanted her, and as so, he had gotten her. 

It was an easy fact, a simple matter of nature. What the royal family wants, they get, easy as that. 

But she had never truly belonged to him, not really. Her body belonged to him, but her mind, her heart, it had never been his. That, she kept to herself, kept under lock and key and tucked in a corner even he couldn't reach. 

For that, she considered her, and by extension himself, a failure. 

He had longed to keep her hidden away, like a dragon does it's treasure. He'd yearned to clutch her heart on his hands and bend her heart to his will like he did his flames. Make her belong to him in all the ways it counted. 

But in the end, she was gone, and all he kept of her was the two children she bore him, and the crown she'd paid her freedom with.

It was not enough.

Azula was a good heir, despite being his second born. She was strong, shaping up to be the ruthless leader he expected her to be. Talented, strong. Yet, even Ozai could see the seed of madness seething inside her soul, a rotten disease lurking to destroy the one useful thing that had come out of that woman.

His crown prince, who could not even manage to eavesdrop on his own father undetected, was the complete opposite. 

Ozai put the glass of fire sake down with a sneer. 

Even now, with a full day to come to terms with his mother's departure, he still had to quiet his pathetic sobbing with the border of his robe.

“If you want to enter the room, do so, or leave before you test my patience,” Ozai scoffed, not bothering to turn around.

The child answered under his breath, shuffling inside the room with the demeanor of a scared pygmy puma.

The boy was weak, obedient, sentimental, and way too soft. Nothing close to what Ozai wanted in a heir.

Even now, the boy shuffled close to him with a scared uncertainty that did nothing more but irritate Ozai. His eyes -much like his mother's- glued onto the ground, his hair loose and covering his face. 

“She's not coming back, is she?” he asked suddenly, like he was afraid the courage would slip from him if he did not say it at once. “Mother, she's left for good, right?”

Yes, the kid was too much like his mother. Weak minded, and sensitive. 

“She clearly spoiled you too much,” Ozai frowned, glaring at the cringing form of his son. “For that she's not only a traitor and a bad wife, but a failure of a mother. You're better off without her.”

Perhaps now without her influence on him, Zuko may yet be shaped into something of use, something more than the weak heir and useless son he'd been forced to keep.

The boy stifled a sob, and against everything Ozai had taught him, crashed onto his side and silenced his tears against his chest. Ozai is ready to push him off, punish him and strike him for disrespecting him so blatantly. And then, the child turned to look at him, and every thought halted in Ozai's mind. 

Because, from that angle, the candlelight obscuring the room enough, fire sake clouding his mind, with his son's hair down, and his eyes shiny with tears, his lips and cheeks flushed from crying and looking at him in that pleading, vulnerable way; Zuko looked just like his mother. 

Yes, his son, useless and cowardly, looked just as beautiful and soft as his mother had. 

And it made Ozai's insides stir in a way that was strangely pleasant. 

Slightly baffled, he rose a hand up to the boys cheek, cupping that soft and delicate face, his thumb removing a tear to see him better, the boy unknowingly leaning into his touch in a way his mother had never allowed herself to. 

“You're too much like your mother,” he muttered, only to himself but loud enough that his son heard it, his breath hitching for a second. “Will you leave me too, Zuko?”

The way Zuko's eyes grew bigger with fear and sadness is almost exhilarating in itself. A spark of pleasure ran down his spine when he saw him shaking his head almost desperately.

“All I ever want is to make you happy, father.” he said instead, and maybe it's the way he said it, on the verge of begging for his father's favor, seemingly starving for a single show of affection. 

Maybe it's the way Ozai knew this boy is ripe and bendable in the way others had not been. 

But Ozai knew he was not lying, and he knew that single seed of hunger for love and the will to do anything for it was just what he needed.

What he wanted to take, and grow and feast on. 

Zuko  _ was _ a useless heir.

But Ozai realized he was yet useful in a wildly different way. 

* * *

The day after Zuko embraces his father, things change 

A servant comes, first thing in the morning and tells him his father has requested he moves his rooms. Zuko finds the request odd, but follows it nonetheless, never a fool to think refusing his father's order is even an option. 

Until he finds out, that the room he's requested to move to is the room besides his father.

The servant tells him that the new Firelord has ordered him not to leave the room under any circumstances, and when he goes, Zuko hears him lock the door behind him.

Hours pass, and hours turn to a full day with only a spare number of servants coming inside to serve him meals; and as the time passes with no one able to tell him what's going on, Zuko begins to fear Azula's taunts of his father intending to kill him may yet become true.

On the second day, things get even weirder.

When he wakes up, it's to find his new room furnished with items that he's never seen before. 

There is a closet now, embellished with carvings of flowers and flames, the insides of which are full with robes in every shade of red, the silks beautiful and luxurious enough that Zuko wonders if he's gotten this all wrong, and maybe, father is making him a gift. 

There's a flaw in that logic thorough. Cause the more he looks at the new clothes, the more he realizes they can't belong to him. 

Every one of those robes is tailored in cuts that are definetly meant to be worn by a lady.

There's a vanity too, full with headpieces he recognizes as his mother's, sweet smelling creams and fine perfumes that smell of jasmine and freshly cut lilies. 

It's at that moment that Zuko First realizes that there's something wrong going on. Something he's yet begun to comprehend.

When the servants come that morning, they bring no answers to him. Their faces pinched and reserved, troubled; their words the same, over and over again. 

_ It's the firelord's command.  _

That day, they draw him a bath, full of sweet smelling essences and soft creams that they lather in his skin and hair, a servant dutifully tending to rubbing away the calluses of his hands and feet.

The maiden that dries and combs his hair lets it down that day, pulling only a section of it. It's defining top knot and combing the rest to lay on his back softly. His male clothes disappear, and instead, Zuko is made to wear a dress.

He expects something to change that day, but the sun sets, and for many more days, nothing does.

The days come and pass, and so does the date of his father's coronation, but yet, the newfound routine stays the same. 

He's softened and styled and made to smell and look a certain way, and when Zuko gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror, he twists his mouth at realizing he looks like a girl. 

Is this a punishment? A way for father to drive it down that, if he can't even surpass his little sister, he should live one instead? 

It makes no sense, but he keeps himself from drawing judgement.

It beats getting burnt to learn his lesson any day.

On the sixth day, things change. 

The servants of that day look pale, their faces grim as they perfume and style him. They put a pale powder on his skin that makes it look translucent, rouge on his cheeks and dark Kohl around his eyes, his lips are painted red and his hair braided neatly, a beautiful headpiece full of glass flowers on his hair. 

He's confused, a tight knot of unease in his stomach that tells him he should know what this is all about. He has seen it before.

And then he realizes.

He's being made to look in the same way his mother had in her wedding pictures.

He's shivering, his hands shaking as for the first time in more than a week, he's finally allowed to leave his rooms, the guards refusing to meet his eyes as they escort him to his father's office. 

He thinks he sees one of them give him a sorrowful look before they close the door.

Father looks at him for the first time since that night, and despite the shame that seems to crawl over Zuko's skin, he doesn't seem to notice what's wrong with his appearance. His eyes roaming Zuko's new image with something strange in his eyes.

Satisfaction, perhaps, stained with a bit of pleasure.

Either way, Zuko makes himself smaller, casting his eyes aside.

“It has come to my attention that your performance as crown prince is less than adequate,” his father starts, making Zuko cringe and grimace. “The fire nation has no place for a weak crown prince, you are well aware of that, don't you, Zuko?”

He raises his eyes tentatively, knowing better than to not meet his father's eyes when he's being talked to.

“Yes, father.”

“Good.” He nods, “Nonetheless, I realize now that you may yet serve a bigger purpose, a duty that your mother failed to accomplish and you may yet prove yourself to be useful at.”

Heat surged to his cheeks, this time with an excitement that he was having a hard time to contain.

_ Useful.  _ His father had not given up on him yet.

He looks up, eagerness clear on his face as he looks, expectant, for his father to reveal to him this duty. 

Father closes in on him, his hands, strong and capable, rising up to cup his cheeks in a hold that's too soft, too kind, a show of affection that makes Zuko's whole body flush in happiness. 

“You, Zuko, will become my second wife.”

His face drains pale. 

_ What? _

Father's agile fingers tuck a strand of hair behind his ear, Zuko's whole body paralyzed, and the firelord smiles, a sinister thing that makes ice run down his spine.

“You are beautiful, you know? Just like your mother, but you're better, aren't you Zuko? A dutiful son.”

The words are everything he's ever wanted to hear from his father, but the context is wrong, so wrong. His heartbeat increases, his throat hitching up with nausea.

Father's hands travel down his cheeks, clamping softly around his neck, pulling him forward til his breath mingles with that of his father.

“You'll do anything to serve your Firelord, won't you, Zuko?”

For a second, father's hands squish around him, a warning disguised in almost comforting gesture. 

Zuko's lips are trembling, the words coming out stammered.

“Of course, father.”

And then, father's lips are on his, warmer and forceful, an almost scolding tongue parting his lips and invading his mouth, forcing itself inside him, cutting his breath. Zuko moans, to his own shame, the gesture seeming to only make his father more excited as one of those hands sneaks itself into the small of his back and pushes him into his father's body. His meandering hands, squeezing his arms, his waist, his hips.

Zuko realizes with horror that his father is  _ hard. _

His father's erection is pushing against his stomach.

He shivers, and his father smiles against his lips, he pushes Zuko, backing him down until he's forced to sit on top of his father's desk, the man taking advantage of their position to push his legs apart and lodge himself between them, his lips leaving Zuko's, and he has to bite his lip not to scream as his father starts peppering wet kisses on his neck, one of his hands lifting the robe to trail hot callused fingers up his leg.

“I can't believe it took me so long to see it, a beautiful creature, just like your mother,” he rasps in his ear. “Beautiful, and docile, truly loyal to your nation. More prepared to be my bride than your mother ever was.”

There's a knot in his throat, the hot burn of bile rasping at his chest, his father's touch leaving goosebumps in it's trail. 

He had failed after all. Is that what this meant? He had failed as a son and as an heir and this is why father was doing this to him. Is this really the one thing he could be good at? Being his father's bride? 

Was he being punished? There was no way this was something other than punishment.

Fathers don't touch their kids like this, fathers don't turn their sons into their wives. 

Zuko truly was disgraceful, and now he was paying for it. 

He felt his eyes burning up, a whimper leaving his lips as he felt his father sucking on the juncture between his neck and his shoulder, one of his father's hands, at last, leaving his side to pull at his own clothes.

Zuko refused to see, he refused to look, his eyes stuck still to the emblem of the fire nation, proudly displayed on the walls in front him. But then, his father was grabbing his hand, pulling it until it touched something warm, fleshy and pulsing, and Zuko can't even look away now. Not with his father's cock in his hand. 

Zuko had never seen another cock that wasn't his before, but with his father's one in hand, it was bizarrely easy to see why he was the one being turned into a wife. His father's cock was thick, long as his forearm and slightly thicker, warm, and an angry red color that seemed to concentrate at the tip. It made Zuko feel dwarfed and afraid, it'd weight heavy in his hand.

He must have looked at it for too long, because father grasped his cheeks with one hand, squeezing his jaw as he whispered hoarsely into his ear. 

“Please your firelord, Zuko. Don't you want to make your father happy?”

His hand starts to move on its own. It's a strange thing, almost like he's possessed, his motions clumsy, led only by the crude drawings he'd found in the library once, and his own, almost non-existent experience. His hands feel small wrapped around it, and to his horror he finds himself having to use both of them, his newly manicured fingers getting sticky with his father's precum.

He doesn't even realize he's crying until his father kisses his cheeks, the tears smeared into his face, the make up the servants had applied earlier starting to spread. 

“That's it Zuko, you're doing really well,” he whispers, hoarsely, in his ear. “You're a natural.”

Unwillingly, his chest fills with pride, and he doesn't know whether to cry or laugh. All this time, seeking to be praised by his father, and all he had to do was just jerk his cock. 

At least, a talent for his father to praise.

Finally, after what seems like an eternity, father groans, burying his face in Zuko's hair as he fills his hands with semen. 

He shakes, his hands trembling as the cum seeps from his fingers, the limp cock laying on his knees, staining the high quality silks with sticky white spots. 

Father grasps his hands, pulling them and shoving them in their face. 

“This is the first rule of being a wife Zuko, You must never waste your husband's seed.” 

He resists the gags as one by one, he licks his fingers and palms clean of the sticky come. His lips and chin shining with spit and cum residues. 

Father must say something, but Zuko is no longer listening, his mind clouded with the veil of horror as servants come into the room, their eyes wide and horrified, their skin pale and hands twitching. 

They fix the ruined state of his face, turning him once more into what he now knows is the perfect face of a fire nation bride. They put his clothes back in shape, and pointedly do not mention the stains, nor the sticky residue on his hands as they wash them.

He's led, almost in trance, to a room, with one of the fire sages already waiting. 

The man is surprisingly calm as he officiates the marriage rites, but Zuko can see the pity in his eyes when he looks at him. Can see the way they all look at him. 

When the sun comes down on the sixth day, Zuko has changed from a crown price, to the wife of the Firelord. 

And he can barely keep himself from puking. 

“Get into the bed, wife.” 

That's him now, Zuko thinks, his face red with humiliation, his father's wife. He sits on the bed, knowing full well what's supposed to happen, what husband's do to their wives on their wedding nights.

The ivory of his robe sits stark against the red of the sheets, his heartbeat ringing in his ears. He feels, more than he hears, as father sits right behind him, one hand pushing his hair aside to expose the pale skin of his neck, another pushing the robe to expose his shoulder. 

“I'm sorry,” Zuko says before he can stop himself, his father's touch hesitant for a heartbeat.

“Sorry for what?” He asks and Zuko takes solace in that his tone is calmer than it's ever been before, almost indulgent.

Father's never indulged him before. 

“For not being a strong enough heir.”

_ For being so weak, mother left. _

_ For being so weak, he's been reduced to this.  _

Father laughs, his voice resonant and strangely jubilous. He pushes Zuko onto the bed, caging him with his arms, his hair tickling Zuko's bare skin.

Zuko realizes now that his father is naked, completely naked, his impressive body making Zuko look tiny and pathetic in comparison. 

_ He's to serve a woman's purpose now, he may as well look the part. _

“This was always the way it was meant to be Zuko. Even before either of us knew it, you were bred to be my perfect wife.”

He stifles the sob coming out of Zuko's lips with a kiss. Laying his full body on top of him, one leg coming to rest between Zuko's, pushing them apart so the robe opens up slightly. 

What is he supposed to do? Just lay there and take it? Is he supposed to be acting back? 

What had father called him before? Dutiful? Duty implies more than just stagnation, and this, this humiliation is all Zuko has left to prove himself as more than a waste. 

Even if he hates it, he's meant to make his father proud.

Hesitantly, his shaking arms come to wrap around his father's shoulders, and he seems to like that, pushing deeper into Zuko's body like he wants to bury him into the bed. 

Father pulls at his robes, exposing his skin to the cold air of the room.

He wonders if it's real, or if it's just a play of his imagination. His skin starts to chill, and yet, his father's hands seem to boil at his skin, splayed, groping at his soft parts, kneading with almost painful brute strength that is sure to leave bruises tomorrow. 

What would Azula think of this? Would he be allowed to see Azula after this? Would she mock him? 

Dumb little Zuzu, so useless he's been turned into a woman. She's sure to find this laughable, he's sure. 

As if agreeing, his father squeezes his buttocks, and next thing he knows, those big, burning hands are pulling his buttcheeks apart, long dexterous fingers creeping in until they reach their destination, pulling a whimper out of Zuko's lips as they start to prod at his butthole.

His father pulls away from him, a satisfied smirk on his face, drool covered lips still connected to Zuko's by a trail of spit. He tutts at Zuko like he often did on the training ground after he failed his katas, his brow creasing in an expresión Zuko had seen enough times to commit to memory as something to fear, and yet there's something else behind it, a certain joviality.

“Ah Zuko, still failing at the easiest of things, a wife unprepared for her wedding night, how shameful.” His tone is teasing, the finger in his backside, circling the puckered ring for a moment before forcefully pushing inside, the stretch drawing unwanted tears to his eyes. “I should fuck you like this ,to teach you the importance of preparation, but I'd hate to break my new wife in her first night. Perhaps I can prepare you, if you are ready to do something extra to atone for your lack of preparation.”

Unwillingly, Zuko's eyes trail to his father's cock, poking him in the stomach. Just as big as it had been earlier that day. In itself, he's sure it's capable of splitting him in half, but thinking about it entering him as it is, when one small finger had drawn tears to his eyes, it makes Zuko swallow down fear and bile. 

“Please father,” he whimpers. “I'll do anything.”

Ozai smiled rakishly, fingers coming up to tangle in Zuko's long dark hair before pushing him down with a sneer.

“Then please your father with your mouth.” 

His eyes open with surprise, a pained whimper escaping his lips as his father manhandles him by his hair to lower his face to to his crotch, a second hand pulling at his legs so he's straddling his father's chest, his behind pointing at his father's face, while Zuko's own is hit with the musky scent and intimidating image of his father's cock. 

Up close, it's even bigger, the bulbous tip hovering too close to Zuko's face, already hard, with a bead of precum already gathering at the tip.

He'd heard of this before, in hushed whispers from some of the older boys he'd been forced to socialize with at parties. Of using a maiden's mouth to satisfy your own carnal desires without fear of offspring. 

And here he is now, having turned into the maiden. 

His nose scrunched up, biting his lip as he tries to approach the member, knowing if he takes too long, his father may yet grow impatient. Yet, he frowns helplessly, not knowing how to perform such humiliating act.

Hesitantly, he parts his lips, breath hitching before he wraps them, softly, around the tip, tongue poking out to lap softly at the bead of precum, he feels his father's abdominal muscles clench at that, and taking it as a good sign, he does it again, dragging the tip of his tongue along the slit of his father's penis, collecting the bitter substance in his tongue.

Father's fingers come to tangle in his hair, scratching at his scalp pleasantly before gently pushing him forward.

“That's it Zuko, now suck on it.” he commands, with the voice he had once, many years ago, before he'd deemed him a dissapointment, used to instruct him in firebending.

It clouds his mind with a pleasant fog of contempt, almost as if he could fool himself into thinking this as one of his lessons. He does as instructed, suckling on the tip, being pushed forward until the cock hits the back of his throat. 

And then slick fingers prod at his ass again, and he's swiftly torn away from his blissful ignorance. 

Thick, callused fingers, prod inside him, slicked by an oily substance that manages to be both cool and burning at the same time, stretching muscles in him that he didn't even know existed. 

“So tight Zuko, you'll serve your father so well, the perfect little hole.”

Those words shock him so much, they drag a sob out of his mouth, the cock in his mouth doing nothing to help him feel any better. Such dirty lewd words from his father, as if Zuko we're a dirty whore, a  _ hole  _ for his father's pleasure. 

Tears run down his face, and in a moment of panic he tries to scramble away, get it out, out of his mouth, but his father's hand on his hair is like an iron grip, keeping him in place, pushing him closer and he thinks he's choking, suffocating in cock. His father groans in frustration, and then those hands are out of his ass and smack down on his ass, the slap reverberating on the room's walls. 

“Don't start acting innocent now Zuko,” his father growls, hand coming down again to slap his ass with such force it leaves a stinging burn, even after he's done. “We both know you're a little cocksucker, just like your mother was, it is in your blood more than royalty ever was. Now stop whining and start acting like a proper wife.”

It leaves him shaking, but he knows it's true. He's his father, the Firelord, and as such his words must always be true. 

Zuko really is all those things and this is his reality. A reality he needs to accept. 

He still shivers in repressed sobs, but he goes back at it again, mouth and tongue full of cock, pushing it inside his mouth even if it draws even more tears to his eyes, and when his father's fingers go back to prodding inside him, he doesn't fight it. 

This time, when he sobs against his father's cock, it draws a pleased groan from him.

“Spirits Zuko, even your pathetic crying feels so good in your mouth.”

He should be proud, he's making his father pleased.

The fingers push inside, one becoming two, two becoming three that dig, deep inside him, opening him up, pushing his aching muscles apart. He thinks he's getting used to the uncomfortable stretching, but then those fingers push against a spot, hidden deep inside, and suddenly, Zuko's back is arching, and he's releasing a loud mewl against the cock in his mouth, a primal moan torn apart from his chest.

His father chuckles darkly, seemingly pleased with the development.

“See, I knew you had it in you.”

The fingers are back on that spot again, pushing against it insistently and Zuko doesn't know whether to give in to the strikes of pleasure running through his spine or throw up. 

His father seems to find it amusing, chuckling with every moan he pries out of Zuko's lips, bucking into his mouth insistently, abusing his ass with his fingers until Zuko is a sobbing moaning mess, his chin wet with spit and precum, gagging on a cock that is almost choking the life out of him.

And then, finally, when he least expects it, father grabs his hair again to push him, now forcefully, down the member, the thick rod of flesh sliding down his throat before exploding with a burst of hot liquid that instantly makes him cough, filling every crevice of his respiratory system, getting into his nose, slipping out of his mouth, and yet father doesn't relent, using his face and thrusting inside him for a little longer before finally allowing him to breathe again.

Zuko pulls away, coughing at the remnants of his father's cum in his throat, breathing heavily when it seems it has invaded even his nostrils, and as he rises his head, he sees himself, for the first time, in the mirror of his father's room.

He can't recognize himself. His lips are swollen red with abuse, his eyes watery and blown wide, a watery white substance leaking out of his lips and nostrils, coating his chin, his lips, dripping onto his chest, the ceremonial robe he had been wearing clinging lewdly off his shoulders. 

Father comes into frame, his thick arms wrapping around him, clinging to him with something that resembles affection. 

“Admiring your father's handiwork?” He rasps against his ear, a hand coming to cradle his jaw, scooping up the cum that had leaked out of his lips with a finger and pushing it back into Zuko's mouth without question. “I haven't even fucked you, and you already look more wrecked than a common whore.” 

He does, doesn't he? 

_ His father's whore _ .

The aforementioned ruler forces Zuko's face to turn towards him, and it's strange how pleased his father looks at him, how that satisfied grim makes his heart swell with pride while also making him shudder in fear. 

It's the same face father makes when he gets wind of another conquest in the war. 

Zuko supposes it's the same, except the territory he's claiming now is Zuko's innocence and body.

“Beg for your father's cock, wife,” father orders him. 

Zuko doesn't think he can even talk, his throat still freshly ravaged, and the mere idea of saying those words repulsive and humilliating. 

Father's hand squeezes around his neck 

“Don't make your husband wait,” he growls, and Zuko shivers.

With his face burning up, he opens his lips, coughing a little as he tries to regain the strength to put words together.

His tongue tastes of semen. 

“P-Please father,” he begins, averting his eyes, when tears threaten to gather again. “Give me your cock.”

Father humms, seemingly not satisfied.

“You will need to be more specific, wife. Do you want me to use your throat again? your ass? Are you that desperate to suck cock again? Or do you want the Firelord to finally fuck your ass?”

It's so vulgar, words like that seem alien in his father's mouth, wrong in Zuko's. He's been taught to keep a certain level of property, laws of behavior instilled in his mind since he was little. A crown price should never be caught dead using such debased language.

_ But he isn't the crown prince anymore.  _

_ He's his father's wife.  _

“Please father,” he says again, hands shaking as he hesitantly lays them across his father's chest in what he hopes is an enticing gesture, pulling him closer, eyes rising to meet his. “Please fuck my ass.”

It's like watching a play.

His father groans in appreciation, pushing Zuko into the bed once more, prying legs apart and wrapping them around his hips before slamming his cock all the way inside him.

Zuko is aware that there's noises coming out of his mouth. But he's not sure if they're cries and sobs from how much his father's member wretches him apart, or lewd moaning noises as his father hits that sweet spot inside him with renewed vigor.

He knows there are sweet words being whispered in his ears, vulgar nothings, tongues that taste him and bites to his throat. 

He sees his own arms, wrapped around his father's shoulders, his whole body rocked back and forth with strong thrusts and fingers that dig so hard into the flesh of his hips that they're sure to draw bruises. 

But the most horrific part of all, is not even his noises, or the way his father seems to have forgotten he's not more than a child. 

It's not even the fact he's being fucked by the same cock that made him, which crossed his mind for a fleeting moment.

No, the worst part, Zuko thinks, is that for a moment there, lost in the pleasure, in the illusion of affection his father gives him, and in the way he finally feels a resemblance of love coming from him.

Zuko thinks he feels himself smile.


	2. The Surrender

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, funny story. I wrote the end of this chapter waiting for a hurricane and edited it while the hurricane was raging outside my room. Coincidentally, I also wrote the first scene of this fic during a hurricane.   
> If God wants to stop me from producing this shit, he gonna need to try harder.

There's a blissful moment, upon waking up, in which Zuko doesn't remember the previous night. 

There's shuffling inside his room, but he just justifies it as the work of the servants.

For a second, he wonders if father will finally tell him why he had Zuko change rooms and start donning women's clothes. 

And then, he realizes, father  _ already did.  _

The whole previous day crashes like a boulder upon his shoulders, and suddenly, every ache in his body returns with dreadful clarity.

Zuko has to use all his will not to open his eyes, but it's hard not to when so many things come to his attention at once. 

His skin is unusually chill and tender, telling him he's naked, and only partially covered by the silk sheets. There's a dull throb in his backside, and a crustiness between his thighs. An ache in his hips when he leans on one side or the other. His jaw tender and pained, his throat sore in a way that no illness had produced before.

There's a salty bitter taste that doesn't seem to want to wash away from his tongue.

He opens his eyes, just slightly, and his suspicions are confirmed. His father walks around the room,  _ naked _ , seemingly out of a bath if the dripping hair was any indication. 

And he just looks normal. Walking and shifting things around his room like a normal person would. As if there was not something marginally different today, staring at him from his bed. 

A part of Zuko supposes it's not his place to judge his father, let alone the Firelord; but another wants to scream and question. How can he be so calm about the situation? When Zuko's mind is still spinning with the fact of  _ father _ becoming  _ husband  _ in only a day. 

Zuko's cheeks heat up.

From where he's 'sleeping' he's close enough to see his father's member swing flaccidly between his legs, intimidatingly huge even in that state. That  _ thing _ was inside him, and even now it made his ass and jaw ache.  _ His father's cock.  _ Which had been inside him. 

Him.

Zuko.

Father 's firstborn.

Father's… second wife? 

“You fool no one with your pitiful attempt at faking sleep Zuko,” Father chastised him, a surprisingly low amount of annoyance in his tone. “If you're awake, might as well take a bath before going back to your rooms, I don't want to have those gossiping servants closer to you than necessary.”

Zuko hides his face in embarrassment. 

Cautious, and avoiding looking too much at his father's naked form, Zuko gets up; taking the sheet as a makeshift robe to cover his indecency before he can make the short trip to his father's own washroom. 

At least that had been the plan, which he would have followed, if his legs hadn't betrayed him the moment he tried to walk and promptly made him tumble to the ground like a hatchling fawngoose. 

Father actually  _ laughed  _ at him, and maybe Zuko would be more captivated by that if he wasn't trying very hard to cover up his own shame. 

He made the attempt of rising up again, but as it seemed, his body still hadn't come to terms with what happened last night. A sharp throb of pain and sore muscles making his legs buckle at the barest hint of use. He tried to suck it up and just push through, but he only succeeded in wobbly tumbling in a general direction.

Father continued to watch him from one corner of the room, the edge of his smile making Zuko increasingly more uncomfortable. At last through, he must have gotten tired of watching Zuko make a fool of himself, and he came to scoop him out like he was a little child again, throwing him over his shoulder as he made the walk to his washroom in half the time Zuko had spent trying and failing to do the the same.

“Guess you were still too tight for your husband, wife,” father smirked, giving a pat to his ass that only made Zuko hide his face in his father's back to restrain a whimper. 

This was too surreal, a strange reality that was making Zuko mad with frustration. Father wasn't this... kind. He didn't speak to Zuko like he was not tired of him.

But father also kept repeating how Zuko was a disappointment, wasted potential. And now Zuko  _ had _ something to do, father had found him a use. Maybe that's why he wasn't so mean anymore.

But then, why had this new duty be to be his father's wife? 

Try as he might, Zuko wasn't sure he could be proud to be useful when the only useful thing he was found to be good at was to please father with his own body.

It wasn't fair, his mind supplied. But thinking that was not only treason, but the words of a bad son. If his father and Firelord said this was to be his position, he had to be right, that was just how it was.

Father dipped a hand into the water, heating it up till it rose a faint amount of steam. It was clearly not that fresh, slightly murky with soap. Probably the water he used to take his own bath, Zuko mused, eyeing his father's still damp hair.

Zuko supposed he wasn't above accepting the Firelord's used bathwater; and he did not protest as father lowered him into it.

The warm water soothed every ache in his body, and he was thankful for his father's bathtub to be big enough to swim in. It solved the issue of his legs feeling pretty useless at the moment.

He did not notice when father's hand lunged into the water to grab at his throat, wrenching him back to make him look his father eye to eye. 

“Zuko, I trust you're smart enough not to pull any escaping trips when I leave you alone. You'll settle yourself into your new role as my wife and I expect nothing less than your full commitment to it. If I hear you've been blabbing off to the servants, I will know, you understand?”

He doesn't even try to claw father's hands away from his throat when his grip gets too tight. He knows it's useless.

Instead, he tries to give father a wobbly smile, and the most enthusiastic nod he can while barely being able to breathe

“Of course father, I would never let you down.”

That seems to be the appropriate answer, because father smiles, and once again he crashes his lips against Zuko's, a savage possessive edge to his mauling as he almost seems to want to devour Zuko's lips and steal the breath from his chest. He even bites Zuko's lower lip, hard enough to draw blood and make everyone who sees him know what had happened. When he finally let's Zuko breath, he rests his forehead against his, breathing heavily with his hands twitching on Zuko's throat, a clear indicator that he wanted and was having a hard time restraining himself from going way further than a violent kiss. To Zuko's relief, he doesn't, settling for only patting Zuko's cheek indungently.

“Good girl,” he growls, and he's gone before Zuko can even begin to consider correcting him.

Zuko was not a girl.

...but he was being made to look like one.

He dismisses the dread that train of thought takes him on, and tries to concentrate on his bath, not really knowing how much of this peace he will have before making it back to the room that wasn't his, and the clothes that slowly seemed to be replacing his skin.

His mind still can't quite wrap around what is happening, what has already happened, and Zuko wonders how long he can keep this uncertainty, before it's too late. 

Deep inside, his treacherous mind almost wishes this were a joke, a prank his father pulled on him to humiliate him for his mistakes. 

But the Firelord doesn't prank. 

And fathers don't fuck their sons to replace their wives. 

His skin feels too tight, dirty, even with the water slowly washing away the crusty patches of cum still clinging to his skin. Water doesn't wash away the pain on his backside nor the bruises on his hips, nor the hoarseness in his throat. 

He wishes he could dwell more on it, but before long there are servants inside the bathing room. The same ones as before, avoiding his eyes and focusing almost obsessively making his skin and hair soft, and his smell sweet. 

Now he knows why. 

They don't direct a word to him, focused on their task with almost obnoxious determination. Zuko wonders if it's because they take pity on him, or because they find him disgusting.

They push a tea obviously tainted with a pain relieving remedy in his hands, and Zuko thinks perhaps he should be the one disgusted with himself.

Not all of  _ it _ had hurt, perhaps that's even worse.

Before long, he's in his rooms again, already fitted in a gown and perfumed. The last servant in the room, an elderly woman that only seems to look at him with a sad frown, waits until the room is vacant and approaches him, hesitantly pulling two vials out of her skirt and offering them to him.

“I don't mean to intrude my lady, but I took the liberty of preparing some medicinal salve for you, for the pain.”

Zuko frowns.

“Im a boy,” he says idiotically, not knowing whether to be ashamed at the fact he doesn't even look like a man anymore, or somewhat complacent that he's already fulfilling his father's expectations so well.

The old lady averts his eyes.

“It's the Firelord's wish that we treat you as a lady, mistress. You'll understand we are  _ pressed  _ to follow his will.”

In other words, Zuko was to live as a woman from now on.

Under fear of punishment.

“Thank you for the salve,” he says instead, a defeated slump in his shoulders. “The other servants already healed me a bit, but I'll use this when the pain comes back.”

The old lady's lips quirk, but it's not a humorous smile, her eyes too sad, her expression too rueful. 

“It's not for  _ that  _ kind of pain, my lady. The biggest batch is to prevent pain, the second for after ”

Oh.

_ Oh. _

He mutters another gratitude to the old lady, and waits till she's gone to slump on the mattress like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

His eyes stay still on the two vials of salve.

Not for the first time, he feels as if he's stumbled onto a dream, and he wishes desperately to wake up. 

Zuko is not dumb, nor naive, much as Azula liked to tease him and call him a dum-dum.

Zuko  _ knows  _ what is happening. What his father did to him last night. And he knows, on some level, that this is viceraly wrong.

He'd eavesdropped on soldiers and disgusting old war generals. He'd heard the whispers of what some soldiers did with the girls they found during the raids. Heard of noble girls, too young to even bleed, whom the disgusting war generals had  _ saved _ by offering a spot in their beds. He'd heard of why you should never leave a woman alone with certain soldiers. And of servant girls who dreaded serving tea to certain nobles. 

But Zuko was a boy, and father was the Firelord. 

And that changed things, didn't it?

Because princes, even weak pathetic ones like him, aren't forced into this kind of things. They aren't disgraced, or tainted. 

And the Firelord is not a mere dirty lecherous pervert consumed with lust. The Firelord is a divine ruler appointed by Agni, and that had to count for something didn't it? The Firelord was never wrong.

So obviously, if this was father's will it was Agni's will. And Zuko wasn't _ forced _ into this, this simply was his destiny and he was yet too blind to see it clearly. 

He was meant to be the Firelord's bride, Father said so, which meant Agni wanted him to. And a Firelord needs a wife, not a dumb, useless young prince, so of course, in his mother's absence, Zuko had to step up to the plate and become what was needed of him. 

But why did that fill him with bile in the back of his throat and a potent wave of nausea. 

Zuko was simply weak, he had to be, and that was why he trembled at the thought of his father touching him again.

That had to be it, yes. 

He simply had to be stronger. 

But how do you become stronger at being a wife?

Is the Firelord's wife allowed to bend?

Zuko wasn't Azula, his firebending, while sufficient, paled pathetically in comparison to her's. So maybe he wasn't needed anymore? 

But Zuko, despite it all, loved bending. He loved sword lessons with Piandao, loved the feel of his flame in his hands and the warmth in his heart. 

Thinking of repeating what happened last night made him sick, but the thought of never bending again stung like the death of a loved one.

Perhaps driven by this fear, he pushes those thoughts out of his head, and instinctually takes the candles left there by the servants, placing them in front of his bed. Even if he wasn't allowed to bend, uncle's meditation exercise had always helped him relax much easier. 

Breathe in.

Breathe out. 

He falls asleep with the flame.

* * *

There is a hand on his hair, and a strange noise beating in his ears. 

In his sleep addled mind, Zuko leans into the touch, rubbing his cheek against the warm skin like a needy kitten, burrowing closer. 

There is a wet, slapping noise in front of him, messing with the almost perfection of his sleepy comfort. 

His eyes flutter open, and just as quickly, his reality shatters again, his eyes shooting open and a strangled noise caught in his throat, the hand in his hair suddenly turns into a vice grip keeping him in his place. 

Centimeters away from his face, his father continues to stroke his cock, seemingly unaware and unbothered by Zuko's wakeful state, with the exception of his grip on his hair and the shushing noise he makes as he rubs his cheek with his thumb. 

There's no point in trying to pull away, as much as his muscles itch to flinch and his breath picks up. 

He can do nothing more than watch, almost wishing this to be nothing more than the mirage produced by his sleep addled mind, watching that hand that yesterday did unspeakable things to him work in its own flesh, the head of his father's cock dripping, almost in mockery of the tears that Zuko now knows are futile to drop.

It all ends surprisingly fast, thick white fluid shooting out of his father's cock as he groans in satisfaction, splattering into his face so fast Zuko barely has time to flinch before it gets into his eyes.

And perhaps his father  _ is  _ punishing him, because Zuko thought he'd gone through the worst of it last night, but turns out being splattered in the face with your father's semen reached a new layer of humiliation.

And something told him he was just begging to discover the levels that could reach.

Ozai grins, a glint in his eyes, much like Azula's when she knew she could extort something out of her friends. He looks at Zuko expectantly, not saying a word but conveying enough that Zuko knows he's supposed to do something.

_ First rule of being a wife, never waste your husband's seed.  _

He'd always been a fast learner. Perhaps that was his ruin now. 

His face still feels sticky and gross, his eyelashes sorta clumping together from a glob of semen he couldn't quite completely clean off, but he manages to scop and swallow all of it without gagging. Zuko will take that as a win if it gets him some freedom of mind. 

“Good,” father says once he's sufficiently satisfied with his performance, getting off the bed. “I'm glad to see you can retail some basic information.”

He rounds up Zuko as if he were a fine piece of meat and his father a predator. His eyes surveying him, rounding him and taking in the room he'd moved him to.

His eyes stay for a moment at the candles he'd foolishly left unattended at the border of the room, making his heart skip a beat. 

Thankfully, or perhaps unfortunately, father's eyes soon stray to the two vials the old lady had gifted him, left upon his bedside table. His eyes take on a dangerous glint. 

“It seems you've taken the means necessary to be prepared, serves us just well for what I had in mind for today.”

He manages not to flinch.

_ Of course father would want to make use of him, it's Zuko's duty, now, isn't it? _

“Strip,” father commands, and that does in fact make him shudder.

Ridding himself of his clothes, femenine as they may be, adds a new layer of vulnerability. At least last night he'd been allowed to keep some of the clothes on, or delude himself into thinking he wasn't being watched by the proximity of their bodies and the darkness of the room.

But now, with Agni still shining in the sky and at the center of his father's attention, there's no chance to keep himself shrouded. Every little imperfection jumps to his mind. 

He's too short, and too wiry, some baby fat still clinging to him in embarrassing spots. Mother had said he would grow into a fine young man soon enough.

But mother was gone, and now Zuko had to serve her place. 

It disturbed him how that thought drew a bitter aftertaste from his chest.

“On the bed, legs spread.”

He obeys, his eyes set on the blankets and the ceiling of the room as he carries his father's order. A part of him wishes to disappear inside itself, and just let father do with him as he must.

But father, as always, knows better than Zuko, grabbing his jaw forcefully and forcing to look at him. 

“Look at your husband when he's helping you wife,” he growls, irritated. “Is this how you should treat your Firelord.?”

He's using that tone, the one he had when Zuko had been dishonorable and disgraceful again, the tone that instantly makes fear flood his veins. 

“No,” he shakes his head profusely, “No, it isn't, I'm sorry father, I won't do it again, I'm your humble son.”

And that's the wrong thing to say, because father snarls, his grip shifting from his jaw to his hair, and then he's being pulled, hard enough that it feels like his scalp may rip from his skull, manhandling his body over his father's knee and pushing his face on the mattress. 

“Seems you need a lesson, wife,” he rasps in his ear, right before a searing hot palm snaps over his behind, one, two, three, four times in quick succession. A cry of pain rips itself from Zuko's throat, but it's muffled by the mattress. Tears in the corners of his eyes.

Father pulls at his hair, lifting his head to growl his next words in his face. 

“Wives don't get to be sons Zuko, are you defying your Firelord?”

He opens his mouth to speak, plead for forgiveness, but Father slams his head against the bed again and his palm goes back to strike him.

Zuko's been burnt before, he knows the heat in his father's hand is not enough to blister, but it comes close, and his legs unconsciously trash against the sheets, trying to get away. He can't breathe, nor get away as each blow makes his skin tender and red and so pained he's almost glad for the bed being pushed into his face. At least that gets to quench the pathetic sobs and the tears being forced out of his throat.

“I don't have a  _ son _ , Zuko.” he growls into his ear in between blows, “I only have two beautiful daughters, one of which should know  _ her _ place is to please her father in all the ways  _ she _ can.”

He slaps him one more time, before tenderly, his hand just slightly less warm, fondling his aching buttcheeks, finally pulling his hair up to let him breathe as he rubs, almost kindly, the aching flesh.

“Now let's try this again, Zuko,” father says, eerily calm. “Is this how you treat your Firelord?”

Zuko can barely breathe, heaving breaths as he, she?, tries to summon the words.

“No father,” he responds between labored breaths. “I beg your pardon, I'm-”. He hesitates, the word stuck in his throat. “I'm your humble daughter.”

“Much better,” he smirks, the grip on his hair loosening, to rub his fingers against his scalp in a manner so tender compared to before, that Zuko almost moans from happiness. “Was that so hard, daughter?”

He thinks he answers out of fear of repetition, but the word is missed as he hides his face against his father's side, allowing himself for a moment to relish on the sweet kind touches that make the ache in his skin feel but a dream.

Distantly, he hears one of the vials open, a splashing of liquid, and then, almost nonchalantly, his father's thick finger being pushed inside his ass. 

He quiets a whimper against his father's abdomen. 

“Bad wives get punished Zuko,” father says, pushing against his walls, rubbing the sweet tender flesh inside him. “Good wives get rewarded, even you can retain that.”

A second finger enters him, and before he can start to feel the stretching pain, hits at that damned spot from last night, and now, instead of cries, he's quieting a moan.

It feels horribly good, and it completely baffles Zuko how his father's hands can make him feel so many different things. Pain and pleasure, the caress of a loving father and the punishing disappointment of the Firelord.

He should be glad to be shown this  _ love.  _ To be  _ loved,  _ by his father even after all the ways in which he'd shown himself to be undeserving of it. 

In a way, a horrible, deep seated, feral way, he  _ is _ glad. He relishes the way he's touched kindly, and the way his father's voice is almost fond, the way father calls him  _ good, _ a good girl. And yes, there's something viceraly wrong about this identity being forced onto him, but the result is the same, is it not? Father is satisfied, father is happy, and loving, and all the things Zuko had long given up on. 

So Zuko clings closer to his father's strong chest, and burrows closer until he can hear his heartbeat, the beats strangely synchronized with the pushes of his fingers inside him. Zuko lets himself be rocked back and forth, and quiets the unseemly noises being pulled from his throat by smothering himself against his father's chest.

He can even delude himself into thinking this is some sort of training, a painful but weirdly rewarding training. 

Father is just showing him a new way to serve his country, nothing else. 

This time he doesn't even sob when father makes him stand on all fours and forcibly pushes his huge hard cock inside him.

_ This is wrong. _

Zuko's opinion is inconsequential. 

He bites his lip bloody and hides his face in the mattress, as his father keeps his ass in place with a bruising grip to penetrate his behind.

“Ah Zuko,” father moans in between thrusts, his fingers tangling in Zuko's hair, “You got the best cunt I've ever fucked.”

His words ring with a stab of pain through Zuko's mind, mixed with horrible pride. 

Is he just a hole for his father? Is he at least loved? Should he be proud he's the best? or horrified at being just his father's newest conquest?

“Of course,” father scoffs, “you were made for me didn't you? Your mother, ungrateful cow that she was, at least made you, much better at this than she ever was.”

_ Mom. _

How long has she been gone really? Two weeks? Did she know this would happen to Zuko? Would she really care? Had she been in this with father all along?

Zuko was so sure;  _ had _ been so sure that out of everyone in this palace, it was mom who loved him the most. Mom was his protector, and one of the only people he trusted wholeheartedly. 

But mom had left, had abandoned him. To this, to her own fate.

Had father done to her what he was now doing to Zuko.

Could he blame her for leaving?

Or did he somehow start to resent her for dooming him to this life.

Father's cock is relentlessly drilled deep inside, reaching inside him to places he never knew existed. Beating him up from the inside out and soiling his soul with his seed. 

Zuko was always a useless heir, maybe Father's essence inside him will make something actually useful flower inside him. Maybe Zuko is not really that useless. 

“You're not an ungraceful whore like she was, are you Zuko?” He growls in Zuko's ear, his balls slapping Zuko's ass as he keeps beating his cock inside him. “Say you love your father.”

He pulls his hair, and suddenly Zuko feels like one of the komodo rhinos from the stables. Father pistoning behind him, riding him and using his hair as the reigns.

“I love you father,” he rasps, his voice strained from the pull on his head.

“Yes,” father hisses, and he seems to find Zuko's words pleasing because, if possible, he goes harder on him, almost pulling out entirely before slamming up to the hilt again. “Know your place, without me you're just another hole to be filled, Zuko. Just like your mother was. I should have had her sent to  _ serve _ the men in the army, just like the common wench she was before we married. Let her be used again and again until she was worn and sloppy. I could have you the same. You're nothing without me Zuko, I let you be my wife, more than your pitiful existence deserved. I deserve a thank you, don't I, Zuko? Come on daughter, say thanks to your father.”

Zuko is shivering, rage? Indignation? Humiliation? 

He feels the bile in the back of his throat, and he doesn't know if he wants to break into sobs again or scream, scream until he's gone mute and scream until he's hollow again.

“Thank you, father,” he says instead, against clenched teeth. “thank you so much.”

“For what?” He demands, he's close, his thrusts erratic and wild.

“For letting me by your wife, for your mercy.”

“What else?”

Father needs it, he wants this. 

He enjoys this, Zuko realizes, nausea and rage in the pit of his stomach. 

He enjoys shaming Zuko.

“For allowing me to be  _ your  _ hole,” he grits between clenched teeth.

That does it, father spasms and comes inside him. Thick burning seed floods his insides and drips down his thigh when father finally pulls out.

Zuko sits up, feeling by all intentions like a hollowed out doll. A Hole. Just like his father wanted of him.

It makes him chuckle, an airy sound that makes father turn to look at him like he's convinced he's finally broken him.

Maybe he has. 

“Oh," Zuko says, nonchalantly dipping his fingers in the mix of cum and blood oozing out of him, “so this is why mom left you.”

Not a second after the words leave his mouth, he gets slapped so hard across the face that he falls limp to his side.

He doesn't move to sit back again. 

Father sneers at him.

“Should have known you needed more discipline.”

He doesn't even guard his back from any attacks as he leaves him, he knows, just like Zuko knows, when someone has given up.

He walks to the door and calls for a guard.

“Bring the earth kingdom captive. Tell him I'm using his service after all.” Father says, with a strange tone Zuko has not heard him use before.

This time, he comes back to the bed slowly, a sadistic smile in his face as he drags Zuko to the bedpost, and starts ripping his new gown to shreds in order to use the rags to tie him up.

A penchant of dread starts to boil inside Zuko. An unease that he can't unshake.

“Don't worry, Zuko,” father tells him, with an edge of what seems like amusement. “Much like a feral pet, I realize you just need some… training, to acclimate to your new position.”

He can only begin to wonder what any of that means when the earth kingdom man shows up.

He's nondescript, almost painfully so. Decked in a dirtied dark green and black uniform of some sort, his eyes shifting, hands twitchy.

“Is this the one?” He asks to father.

“Yes.”

The man takes one of the many lamps in the room, his eyes cringing with pity for a moment before they grow cold.

“What should he learn first?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, in case you did not catch, the earth kingdom man? Captive Dai Li.   
> This ain't even the worse I can do, and for that I thank my good friends Katsu and Sweets. Enabling me to do evil.  
> Feel free to leave comments, and kudos! Every little one fuels me to write the next part.


	3. The Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Breaking tradition this chapter was NOT written during a hurricane. But one may hit soon so like, my good friend God is back at it again trying to stop me.   
> It was, however, written while I was in bed with the worst cramps ever. Bon appetit.  
> Special thanks to Anontheblip for a very interesting theory that became an integral part of this chapter.   
> Oh, and also, pls check out updated tags. Just be warned.   
> Have fun with this one, if it gets too dark, blame my enablers.

_ There is a fire burning behind his eyes. _

_ Zuko's mind is cotton and burning embers, floating in a haze till they burrow inside his skin and dig till they reach his bones. _

**_A father's love is painful, a pleasure best served scalding._ **

_ That's what the voice says, has been saying, for however long he's been in the fog.  _

_ Zuko can't recognize the voice, but he does recognize the touch and the pleasure burning through his veins.  _

_ In the endless fog he struggles with, father is like the sun, a shining beacon he clings to, to keep himself from going adrift. _

_ Pain and pleasure becomes a blurry line.  _

_ The voice tells him he should stop thinking so hard. Just drown, Zuko, drown in the feeling of having a father's affection. _

_ When the fog gets too thick, Zuko thinks perhaps pain is better than no feeling at all. _

* * *

Servants are not allowed to gossip.

Nobles are fickle things. They exist in a plane removed from the rest of the world, each of them held accountable to rules of their own creation. Tamaki had long since learnt never to assume himself entitled to pass judgement over any of them.

What nobles do is their own business, and Tamaki's job is only to serve, and make himself invisible as he can be.

Perhaps that's why Firelord Ozai picked him for the job. 

Many years later, he would try to make excuses for his own peace of mind, and though he won't find any, the truth is he didn't even realize who the kid was at first.

It wasn't his place to question why the Firelord wanted a child, who couldn't be more than 12, to be dressed and fitted as a girl. 

When the child asked for his father, and the truth of his identity became apparent, Tamaki knew keeping silent meant much more than safety. Keeping silent meant his life.

He held his tongue, even when he walked into the Firelord's room and found the child with tear tracks down his face, and sticky white fluids in his hands and clothes. 

He shouldn't have, when two days later the child disappears. 

Days pass, and the Firelord doesn't call him, nor the others to serve. He doesn't give them new assignments either.

They sit in a sort of limbo.

Tamaki shouldn't pry, and he should knew better than to not reprimand the other servants when they start to whisper and wonder among themselves. 

On the 10th day, he hears one of the guards whisper about the mysterious screams coming from one of the abandoned wings of the palace.

Against his better judgement, he starts to feel pity for the lost prince.

* * *

_ There's a fire behind his eyes. A fire that calls forward the fog that dulls his senses. _

_ But Zuko is made of fire, and at times, when the fog starts to thin, Zuko is able to burn bright enough for the fog to rise. _

_ In those moments, between the rise and fall of the fog, a memory seems to haunt him. _

_ It's an old one. From the time before the word father was a reverential warning, and Azula was but a promise for a time to come. _

_ Zuko was drowning, and then he wasn't. And when he opened his eyes, full with tears and fueled by fear, it was father who held him. _

_ Fire fueled his lungs, and it was father who breathed inside him and fueled his embers. _

_ If that was true, it was father's fire that lit the pyre in Zuko's chest.  _

_ His life belonged to father, he was but an ember, circling the sun of his presence. _

**_He deserves your loyalty, your heart and your body, for they never belonged to you in the first place._ **

_ The voice keeps nagging him, whispering those words in his ears. _

**_Isn't father great? Isn't he handsome? Isn't he all you wish to hold on to and never let go._ **

**_Such a kind man, father, for he lets you shine next to him and fuse your light with his._ **

**_Such a kind man, for loving you so._ **

* * *

The capital mourns.

Nobles whisper, peasants gossip, bards devour in gluttony, and enemies shake their heads, taking a drink as they thank whoever managed to hit the royal family in thricefold.

It is no surprise, of course, for coincidences are non-existent in war.

Days after prince Lu Ten's fall, Firelord Azulon dies, Princess Ursa disappears, and with her, so does the would be Crown Prince.

A once vast family, cut in half in so little time. 

Not many question Azulon's death. He was an old man, having served his nation for many years.

Prince Lu Ten fell at war, a warrior's death.

And yet, when questioned by his generals, eager to pin the crime on the rebel forces, newly Crowned Firelord Ozai claims his missing wife to have been taken by insanity, taking his beloved firstborn with her in a fit of madness. 

The people mourn for the royal family, lighting candles and singing mournful songs.

At the Firelord's coronation, more than one person weeps at the sight of the remaining royal family, their mourning Firelord, and the poor young Princess Azula suddenly left with the duty of being next in line.

Their poor Firelord, newly in power and already missing so much. The strength he must have to show himself so firm in the wake of such a tragedy.

More than one noblewoman sees the apparent new widower, and cunningly plans how to best burrow her way into the throne 

They ignore the fact their Firelord already keeps a new wife under lock and key.

* * *

_ There is fog, then clarity, and the only thing that remains constant are the whispers in his ears. _

_ Zuko burns bright enough to completely cut through the fog exactly once. _

_ He opens his eyes to a cold cell and a body bare except for the blood matting his skin like fire lilies in the snow. _

_ The whispers don't stop. _

_ It's cold. Colder than he's ever been. His skin is bare and when he breathes he can see the air crystalizing before his eyes. _

_ He wants the sun. _

_ He wants father. _

_ Father who made a shell of him and planted his vicious seed to fill Zuko with blood and fire. _

_ Father who told him he was perfect and beautiful and soft and a good wife, so good, so loving. _

_ Father who breaks him and puts him back together and fills the cracks with gold made of pleasure and pain and silk dresses and soft caresses and words of lust and love. _

_ It's lonely and cold in the chamber, and the whispers won't let him forget that the only light he'll get is when his father gets here. _

_ Father who left dark bluebells and red lillies between his thighs. _

_ He wants to make red lilies blossom in his father's skin as well.  _

_ He wants to drink the warmth from his father's lips till he burns to ash. _

* * *

The letter comes two months after Lu Ten's death.

Iroh makes no attempts to delude himself when he sees the imperial crest on the wax seal. And he is not surprised with the contents either.

Azulon was dead, and his cunning little brother, Ozai, took the throne. 

Iroh honestly thought it was about time. Ozai had never made it much of a secret where his intentions laid, and that he had taken so much time to actually make his move only proved that maybe his little brother wasn't as stupid as Iroh had once made him out to be.

Yes, Iroh had long been expecting the contents of this letter, and maybe that's why the extra words hit him so suddenly.

Because his sister in law and the nephew he'd loved almost like a second son were gone as well. 

And yet, Iroh is not sad at all. 

In fact, he smiles, gently, a sudden weight lifted off his shoulders.

Because Ursa had always been too gentle for the court life, for Ozai. And Zuko was too kind and good natured to be brought up in that den of vipers. They were both gentle creatures, living in a place that only rewarded poison and lies.

In any case, Ozai always favored Azula. The one of his children who he'd managed to shape into his own twisted image. Iroh had always known if Ozai got the throne, he would be desperate for a way to put Azula as his heir.

With his ambition fulfilled, he must have found it easy to let his two  _ disappointments _ go. 

Iroh thinks of Ursa and Zuko, running away into the night to live a better life, away from Ozai and his slowly unwinding mind. Able to flourish without the pressure of the crown.

He smiles.

He can rest easy, knowing Zuko is finally free, safe.

At last, Zuko may actually be happy now.

* * *

_ Somedays, when the fog is so thick Zuko can do little else than shiver and cry and whisper nonsensical answers to the whispers, father visits. _

_ Sometimes he just makes Zuko sit in his lap while he takes care of himself. Other times, there's a bed, and the slap of flesh against flesh combined with the smell of sex. _

_ Everytime, there's a mirror. _

**_Smile wife, show me how much you like me to use you._ **

_ And Zuko does, because that's what a good wife does, and because father owns the embers inside him, and father loves him, loves him so much it hurts. _

_ But his smile is all wrong, and there are tears in his eyes. _

_ Because when he sees himself in the mirror, it's not himself he sees. It's his mother, wearing his face.  _

_ Father calls him  _ daughter.  _ My lovely wife.  _

_ He asks for  _ her _ , and never  _ him _.  _

_ He reaches between Zuko's legs and rubs his palm against what he calls his clit. And then fucks him, telling him what a tight cunt he has.  _

_ And there's something wrong in those statements, but Zuko can't remember what it was. _

_ What was it? _

_ You're beautiful Zuko. Father says, pushing his cock in his mouth and smearing red lip paint all over his flesh. A beautiful girl. _

_ And Zuko is, isn't he?  _

_ The smile stays for far too long after father's gone.  _

* * *

“This is taking longer than you said it would.”

Keeping the earth kingdom agent had been a calculated decision. A spy was never to be trusted, but between killing the man or using him for his own agenda... Well, Ozai had always liked to make investments.

Ursa, with the blood of Avatar Rokku in her veins and her beauty had been a calculated decision; and though she had not paid up in the way he had expected her to, she'd ultimately provided what Ozai needed. 

A throne. 

A powerful heir.

And a pretty wife in the form of Zuko. 

Now, if only that last one could be fixed in a timely manner.

“I didn't count on firebenders responding differently to the treatment,” the earth kingdom scum tried to defend himself. “The re-education process takes harder to stick. He responds erratically.”

So, Zuko wasn't as simple minded as Ozai had expected him to. A true surprise, considering all the weeping and moaning the little slut did whenever he was being fucked. 

It would be satisfactory, if it wasn't so annoying in the face of his plans.

“Is it fixable?” he asks instead, because if all the man has to offer is empty promises, then Ozai is better off just disciplining Zuko on his own. 

He may be stubborn and weak, but at least he knows to listen to his father, provided he gets adequate punishment for when he doesn't.

“Occasional re-education may be needed to keep him docile, but it is manageable. The real problem is his body's response, it keeps reacting badly to the lessons whenever he's pressured too hard.”

Ozai sneers. 

He's ready to send the man to the dungeons for scheduled execution, mentally preparing himself for taking Zuko's discipline in own hand, but then, the man perks up, a sudden glint to his eyes.

“There may be a second option,” the man says. “I suppose, as a firebender, you won't mind the smoke.”

* * *

_ Zuko is weightless. _

_ There's fire inside him, a sweet smelling smoke that spreads across his body and traps him. _

_ There's laughter in the air, his laughter, rising with the smoke as father leaves purple and red flowers in his chest with his lips.  _

_ Laughter and moaning and the sway of his body being rocked into flesh, hitting a spot that makes him sing, and breathe moans like prayers. _

**_What a pathetic little whore._ ** _ The voice says, as he looks at himself in the mirror, his cheeks red, the pupil of his eyes so big, his golden eyes seem completely black, a ditzy smile in cum stained lips as he's fucked into the floor, his own moans polluting the air. _

**_Your body doesn't lie Zuko, you're loving this aren't you? Such a good daughter, spreading her legs wide for the Firelord._ **

_ He wants to refute the voice, tell it it's wrong. Tell it he's still Zuko. _

_ Who's Zuko? _

_ Zuko is the Firelord's dutiful wife. _

_ So he must love this doesn't he? Isn't he loving it?  _ **_Look at how you rut against him and moan like a bitch, you're simply mad for it._ **

_ And the smoke makes it hard, so hard to think otherwise. _

_ Who was Zuko?  _

_ And why would he refute father when his love made him feel so sweet?  _

* * *

Azula's life had grown infinitesimally more boring since mother took Zuko and left.

Oh, she hadn't been surprised to learn mother was gone, if anything, she was surprised it took her so long. And she would not have been surprised if she took Zuko with her. 

After all, Zuko had always been mother's favorite.

Father claimed that mother went mad, and ran into the night with the little Zuko, off to some grim destiny in poverty and ruin. 

But here was the thing.

Azula  _ saw _ Zuko the morning after mother ran off. She teased him, said her usual spiel that she knew would work wonders to get his mind in a twist, and when he had ran away from her, she had not pursued him. 

Let him go and do some silly nonsense to get mother out of his system. Maybe finally he would stop being such a dum-dum.

She had not even been surprised when she did not see him for a few days afterwards. It was a big castle, and if anything, Zuko always had a knack for hiding in the shadows. 

But then father said Zuko had left with mother. 

Azula wasn't dumb enough to question father, less so with him suddenly taking on the Firelord title. 

That didn't mean she didn't want to find out for herself.

What trouble had Zuko gotten himself in now?

Had he finally offended father enough for him to get rid of Zuzu? Had mother stopped being so cowardly and come back for her favorite child? Had Zuko followed her into the night in some silly attempt to get her back? 

Why was it that ever since the coronation father seemed to be reclused in his rooms and barely paid her any attention?

Why did she feel this had something to do with Zuzu being gone?

The castle seemed colder with just Azula in it.

* * *

_ The loneliness was unbearable. _

_ Why? Why had he ever pushed away from father's touch? Why had Zuko ever been so stupid? _

_ Was it hours? Days? Weeks? Father wasn't coming, and neither was the sweet smoke. _

_ Even the flowers in his skin were fading, crumbling away. _

_ It was just Zuko and the voices and he was slowly fading like a flower without the sun. _

_ He needed father, needed his touch, his love.  _

_ Needed it like a primal need, an animal growing feral inside his head. He was empty without him, hollow. _

**_You're nothing without him. Nothing but an empty shell._ **

**_Wife and Daughter to the Firelord, you'd be his slut if only he would take you and call you beautiful again, don't you?_ **

_ The voice didn't leave him alone, why didn't it leave him alone? _

_ He'd be good for father, really, he would. _

**_So needy, so pathetic. Mother made you this way, the perfect wife material, she never wanted a child, just her replacement, you know it._ **

_ Why couldn't the voice shut up? Why wasn't father here? _

**_Might as well be dead without him. Need him to breathe life inside you, don't you little wife? Just a little ember without his touch._ **

**_Love him, hold him. Let him hurt you as long as he's there for you._ **

_ Let him come and quiet the voices, he'll be the perfect wife, so good. _

_ But you already know that's not possible, don't you Zuko? _

_ There's no one here, in the chamber with you. _

_ No whispering devil. _

_ Because the voice was Zuko's all along. _

* * *

Zuko wakes up alone.

A real wake up, and not a hazy dream made of smoke and shadows. Wakes up, cheek pressed against a painfully soft pillow, and covered in silks sheets that barely feel present against his skin. 

For a while, it feels like he's on a script. Rise up, freshen up, let the servants whose faces he can't focus on pamper him and dress him. Yes, a proper dress for a lady, soft lines and flowing sleeves, cinched around the waist. Rouge in his lips and hair loose, the way father likes it.

Buzzing in his ears, the scrapping of a chair, tea in his tongue, and then the clicking of ceramic, and suddenly Zuko is truly awake, standing right in front of a man that by all accounts can in no way be Fire Nation.

He almost drops the cup in his hands out of startle.

“I'm sorry princess,” the man smiles apologetically, “Didn't mean to startle you. Your mind may be still be a bit fuzzy, it's been a rough couple weeks.”

He only hears that last single word. 

Weeks.

Zuko swallows down, eyes sweeping almost frantically from one side to another of the room.

It's his room. The new one. The carved wardrobe and the smell of the cosmetics impossible to miss in his mind. 

The robe he's wearing is made of a thicker material than the last he could remember wearing, and yet he finds himself a little cold still. The sky from outside his window strangely clouded.

“I'm sorry, did you say weeks?”

The man smiles again, and there's something sinister in the calm animosity of his expression. Something Zuko doesn't like. His green, clearly earth kingdom, eyes seem dull, and yet overly aware at the same time.

“A bit over two months, in fact. You caught quite the terrible illness princess, it's gotten you bedridden and delirious for weeks. We barely managed to cure you,” the man explains, and Zuko suddenly feels like the teacup in his hands weighs like a rock.

That makes absolutely no sense.

Zuko would remember getting sick. 

Even the memory of marrying father was still fresh in his mind, along with everything that had followed, he thought with a blush. So he would remember something of that sort.

But if he wasn't sick then what else could there be? Why else could he not remember the past two months? And what did that have to do with the man in front him?

“Who were you again?” He asks the earth kingdom man, not bothering to hide the obvious suspicion simmering inside him.

Something about him was familiar, but Zuko couldn't grasp what, it was like a forgotten word, stuck in the back of his tongue.

“My name is Zheng, I was your doctor.”

Yes, there was something not right in this picture. Something that shouldn't be here.

“Why would my father appoint your services instead of the palace healers?”

“You needed a different kind of healing,” the man answers, so quick it was almost as if he already knew every Word Zuko was going to say. “The kind you can only find in the earth kingdom. Nothing you should worry about, your father has my complete loyalty.”

Sick.

A sickness only an earth kingdom doctor could cure. 

Had some earth kingdom rebel tried to assassinate Zuko? Some poison only someone from the region could know? It wouldn't be too far out of question.

After all, Zuko was now crown prin-

The thought brings a visceral wave of nausea over him, making him hunch over to put a hand on his mouth, almost dropping the cup in reaction.

“Anything the matter?” Zheng asks. 

The Firelord's wife, he corrected himself. Zuko was the Firelord's wife, it made sense that someone tried to harm him, to get to his father. 

The Firelord's wife.

Silly of him to forget it.

“Just some nausea, that's all,” he responds, forcing himself to swallow back the unease with the biggest gulp of tea possible.

“Ah, I was afraid it would get to that,” the man says off the sudden, looking not the least bit concerned. “Your  _ illness _ may have left a few complications, nothing too serious. The Firelord and I have already found the fit treatment.”

The man reaches inside a bag Zuko had not noticed before, pulling out what looks like a flute, and a sweet smelling tar wrapped in paper.

“You may find yourself experiencing nausea, headaches, anxiety, perhaps even bouts of irrational thought or histeria,” the man explains, face twisted in a parody of concern. “Whenever that may happen, it is impassive you take this medicine. Just a tiny portion of the medicinal tar, smoked using a pipe. You'll find yourself feeling much better after it.”

The smell is sickly sweet, and Zuko finds himself wrinkling his nose before he even touches the thing. 

Yet, for some reason, his mouth feels strangely dry, his palms sweaty, fingers weirdly compelled to take the items for himself before Zheng has even the chance of pulling them away.

Zheng eyes the quiet disturb the items cause him with a smile, and pushes them closer with what seems like quiet indulgence.

“Perhaps you may like to try some for yourself now? Like I said, it does wonders to calm a restless mind.”

Zuko shouldn't. No matter how much sense the man's words do or do not have, Zuko doesn't trust him, doesn't even know what this medicine really is.

But then, Zheng is already quietly walking Zuko through the process of preparing the medicine for consumption, and by the moment the fuse lights the candle of tar, Zuko's heart seems to have migrated to his ears.

He takes the pipe in trembling fingers, rising it to his lips with the hesitance of someone afraid of how eager they are.

Then, sweet smoke fills his lungs, and Zuko feels himself melt like a million candles.

Zheng chuckles.

“I'm glad the princess enjoys my gift.”

Zuko is barely even listening, drowning in the sweet flavor and the lull of the smoke in his senses.

“Well, my job is done. Your husband will be happy to know you're doing much better, princess.”

Father, the thought alone makes his heart flutter inside his chest. A twisting mix of conflict and want he can't quite stomach without taking another drag of the pipe.

“Can I see him?” He asks, barely able to keep the desperation from his voice. 

“Of course, princess,” Zheng says, helping him up before he can say otherwise. “Why don't you wait for him in his rooms, I'm sure he'll be elated to see you've missed him so. He spent so much time at your bedside, helping in your recovery, perhaps a reward is in order.”

He whispers the last sentence in Zuko's ears, before practically shoving him inside of his father's room, closing the door behind him.

Zuko's alone once more, thoughts of Zheng's dubious intentions flying off the window the moment he finally registers where he is. He finds himself unable to repress a shiver at the sheer amount of father's presence in the room.

Why, for some reason, the sheer thought of him makes Zuko's knees buckle in a weird sort of eagerness. 

It didn't use to be like this, was it? But for the life of him, Zuko can't remember why. 

It's like his mind feels torn between the need to scream for help, and a hunger that calls for one specific person to sate it.

He makes his way into the room, another drag of the pipe making him feel weightless and so woozy, he stumbles his way to the bed.

Father's smell is even more present in the sheets. Smoke and a bit of incense. A musk that makes Zuko bury his face in the pillow. 

Is something wrong with him? His heart is beating too fast, his skin pinprick sensitive just knowing father was sleeping here just that morning. Probably naked, father likes to feel the silk against his skin. 

That brings a giggle from his lips. 

Zuko didn't giggle, he frowns, it was unseemly. But his head feels too light to worry about that. 

Why when there are so many things much more pressing and worrying to bother himself with.

Zheng had said father spent multiple times at his bedside, and father had married Zuko. So father must like him, now, wasn't that right?

He seemed to like him when he fucked Zuko into the bed. 

So, Zuko was wanted, right?

He needed father to want him because Zuko himself couldn't resist the slowly spiralling coil of want in his chest. And if father didn't want him, that in itself was enough a reason to make him nauseous again. 

He wouldn't discard Zuko for being so weak he spent two months in bed, right?

Was it possible to feel both exhilarated and nauseated at the same time? If it was possible, that was how father made him feel. Needing his touch felt like needing air, and yet, deep inside him, Zuko knew there had to be something wrong with those words.

Just the smell of him was enough to make his heart accelerate, but that wasn't how he used to make Zuko feel? Wasn't it?

It felt...wrong, yet the mere thought of being repelled by father was in itself distressing.

His next drag of smoke feels bittersweet, and not at all filling like he needs it to. 

No, Zuko was just- He was just adjusting to the idea of being father's wife right? There was nothing wrong with that? 

It was just, hard, to adjust himself to the change, that's all. 

Father made him feel good, there couldn't be anything wrong with that. It was normal to miss him after so much time bedridden. The hole in his chest was just that.

Was it?

Yes, Zuko wasn't broken or weird for liking father that way. Everyone likes feeling loved, everyone likes feeling good. And good wives are rewarded, wasn't that what father said?

Father filled the void inside Zuko, and right now, Zuko felt terribly empty. So empty he could cry.

How had father done it? Surely Zuko could replicate it, he thinks, taking another long drag of the pipe and setting it down the bedside table. It would not be good if father found him in his room crying over nonsense.

He slides a hand between his robes, tentatively searching for the sensitive entrance his father had used to fill him up. His fingers touch his di- no, his clit, and with a shudder he realizes he's already hard and sensitive, with a slight reluctance, he moves his fingers lower, to his puckered entrance. 

The drag to insert a finger inside him is more awkward than he had expected, and he realizes soon that spit won't work half as well as the slick oil he could remember father using.

He panics for a second, thinking he may have to search through father's drawers, but relaxes easily when he finds the vial already resting on top of his bedside table.

The void is just Zuko's need to feel good, that's it. He can fill it on his own, there's nothing wrong with him.

He makes quick work of it, and soon, he's pushing two fingers in and out of himself. It's not working like Zuko has hoped it will, his fingers not nearly as thick, nor as long as father's were, and it makes him whine against the sheets with desperation.

Zuko needs this, he needs to fill the void. That static in his head that called for pleasure and sweet words in his ear while his head was emptied of nothing but pleasure.

He digs in deeper, adding another finger as he reaches far as he can go inside himself, at last, managing to just brush the sweet spot inside himself with a whimper.

More, he needs more.

It was four fingers now, pistoning inside himself with a disgusting squelching sound, making him moan pitifully as he rocks his whole body against the motions, choking back moans as he just manages to brush close to ecstasy. 

He struggles desperately, so entranced in his task, he doesn't even realize when the door opens until his father clears his throat, and Zuko's eyes open in shock. Four fingers still inside him, his robe pushed up his ass and half hanging off his shoulders, his mouth still half opened in a moan.

Reality slaps him like a brick to the face, making him shudder violently as he immediately moves to kneel on the bed with what's left of his dignity. Pressing his face down in the strongest apology he can muster. His heart rattling in fear.

“I'm sorry father, I'm deeply sorry,” he whimpers. “Please forgive me for desecrating your bed.”

He doesn't even want to see father's face, his own burning in shame and the beginnings of tears.

Even more so, he balks at how shameless he must look, body flushed in arousal, his own lust tenting the robe somehow still hanging from his shoulders.

He hears as father enters the room, with slow, measured steps, dragging it out until at last he's right in front of Zuko, his hand suddenly resting in his hair, making him flinch in expectation of a hit. His fingers card through the strands, slowly going through the side, and curving around the line of his jaw, to place his fingers below Zuko's chin.

“Rise your face, daughter.” He orders Zuko, his tone indiscernible. “Look your husband in the eye when he's talking.”

He does, and yet, it's not father's eyes that catch his eyes first, but the massive tent he exhibits in the front of his robe, almost hitting Zuko in his face as he tries to shift his eyes from it, to it's owner's face. 

He shudders.

Father looks down at him, a satisfied smirk in his face that makes him look both sinister and handsome, as his thumb parts Zuko's lips, wrenching it's way past them to press down in Zuko's tongue. 

“Be a dear, daughter, and disrobe your father.” he orders him measuredly, making Zuko's breath skip.

He knows what is happening, and he can't decipher why his heart suddenly seems to go faster.

Is it fear?

Or is it lust?

Which one does Zuko want it to be.

His hands tremble as they come to the fastenings of his father's robe, fingers fumbling with the knot for a bit too long before he's able to wrench it loose. He swallows, tongue twitching against father's thumb, as he raises his hands up his chest, slowly but surely grabbing a hold of the borders to get it past father's broad muscular shoulders.

And they are, broader than he would have expected. His face burning as he notices from up close and personal how small he is next to father, how little his arms look next to his. How helpless he really could be if father stopped being kind enough to make requests. He avoids looking down, knowing the moment he does, he won't be able to pry his eyes away from the thing he knows will be inside him soon enough. 

But as always, father doesn't give him a choice.

He pulls his hand away from Zuko's lips, and to the back of his head, before the all but pushes Zuko's face into his genitals. 

“Ah Zuko, you know better than to try to lie to your own father. I see how hungry you're for it.” He rasps huskily, his words hitting too true in Zuko's head.

It's an ugly and humiliating position, his nose and lips pressed flush against the juncture between his father's penis and testicles. The smell weirdly bitter and acrid, and yet so distinctly father's that it makes Zuko shudder. His mouth waters a bit, and father must notice, because he presses his face closer, rubbing it in so much even Zuko's hair gets mixed with a bit of precum and tears, his nose struggling to get any air through the flesh.

The lack of oxygen only makes the smoke feel more present in his lungs, and suddenly it's like the haze takes over his mind again, a dizzy smile taking hold of his face the more father keeps him pressed flush against his flesh. 

“You like that, don't you, Zuko? Did you miss your father?” 

He tries to nod, even with his head on a grip. It makes father smile, and as so, it makes Zuko happy.

“Good Girl,” he coos at him, much like one would a cute animal, or one of the turtleducks in the pond. “Make your father wet so I can finally fuck that cunt of yours.”

He doesn't have to be asked twice. He takes father's cock inside his mouth with desperation, and doesn't think to question why it's so easy off the sudden when it made him want to die before. 

No, he presses it deep into his throat until father's pubes tickle Zuko's nose, and gags on it till his lips are dripping drool.

Only after it's out of his mouth, and father is yanking his robe apart, before pulling his body closer, does Zuko start to question what in Agni is he doing. 

His legs are spread, when did that happen? His butt hanging off the bed, and his ankles resting on his father's shoulders, framing his face as he smiles back at Zuko in a way that makes him shudder. Shudder in something that isn't quite expectation nor fear. 

His hands circle Zuko's waist, which Zuko now notices, is impossibly small in his hands. He has a moment to think about what that may mean before father grabs him like a doll and folds him in half while he practically spears Zuko with his cock.

The breath is beaten out of him.

It's weird, and that seems to be a constant word in his mind, but he really does seem like a doll with father handling him like that. He's small, way too small. And from this angle he can almost see the bulge that forms in his stomach whenever father pushes too deep. Almost like he wants to burst him apart from the inside out.

How grotesque.

It should feel bad, and gross. Zuko is expecting it to be, he's expecting it to feel like he's being torn apart, but it's almost comforting.

Like being full again.

And then father shifts, just a small change in position and suddenly Zuko has no time to think of that's because he's seeing stars. 

That place he couldn't reach on his own, suddenly utterly and completely being bashed against, all the while father lays on top him like he wants to smother Zuko with his body. Pressing just close enough that with every thrust, his abdomen brushes against Zuko's clit. 

And Agni doesn't _ that _ feel great.

He tries to resist, he truly does, but it's all too good, father's smell so potent in his nose, the pleasure too thick in his veins, mixed in with sweet smoke and haze. 

It's embarrassing because Zuko shouldn't be so shameless, shouldn't he? He shouldn't be keening and mewling like some low class whore, but he's biting his lip bloody trying to keep it all in.

He clasps his hands over his lips trying to silence those terrible noises. 

Father grunts, glaring at him when he sees Zuko's last attempts at dignity.

“Good wives aren't liars, Zuko,” he groans, hips now giving shallow thrusts exactly in the spot that makes Zuko trash just trying to quiet himself. “Come on, your body doesn't lie, show me how much you want your father's cock.”

But Zuko really can't, because if he does father just may realize Zuko is dirty and gross. So sickly and dumb and so out of his mind he gets off to his own father's smell.

But as always, Zuko never truly has an option.

Father's hands free his waist to grab his ankles and literally bends him impossibly in half, so he can grab both his ankle and his wrist on each hand.

The next time he thrusts, Zuko can't hope to keep quiet.

It numbs his mind and his sight, his wails and moans thick in the air like molasses. 

He screams and howls like a bitch in heat, until there's no point in thinking there was any trace of dignity in him to save.

And father smiles at that, grins and quenches his moans with his tongue, and even palms at his clit, letting him thrust shallowly into it in search for his own pleasure. 

“Isn't this much better Zuko?” Father groans against his ear. “Don't you love to show your father how much you need him?”

Zuko moans in response, clenching tighter around him, letting the smoke take him entirely.

Why did he ever fight it really? Why refute how much he needed father when he obviously needed Zuko just as much as he did.

A new kind of haze takes his mind, a fuzz of pure pleasure that makes him black out and go lax in father's arms right before he fills Zuko with his seed.

Zuko lays there for a second, his golden eyes with blown black pupils staring unmoving at the ceiling, trying to discern if the giggles he could hear were real, or just in his mind alone.

There would be a garland of bluebells around his wrists and ankles tomorrow, along with burning pain inside his body.

Zuko couldn't care less.

He sits up, slowly, uncaring of the mess spilling down his thighs, and he crawls towards his spent father. His hands raising gently up coiled muscle, drenched in a thin layer of sweat, around his neck, fingers twisting in the threads of his hair.

When their lips collide, Zuko swears he can feel father's breath fueling the embers inside him, his tongue twisting with his.

As they separate, he swears he can see a sliver of surprise in his eyes. But he can't find the reason why.

Wasn't Zuko meant to be a good wife?

And good wives can't get enough of their husbands.

Zuko rests his forehead against his father's, before he breaths a plea against his lips.

"More.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If snakes start to physically manifest in my house I'll assume one of you cursed me.   
> Hint for next chapter: Azula has a very bad time, Ozai is a piece of ass and Zuko can't catch a damn break.  
> Is this plot rearing it's head? Maybe. We'll see.   
> Pls feel free to drop comments and kudos, they really fuel me and make me feel like a million bucks. Also, I made a tumblr, @tangerinesock, I may use it to post some info on this fic, maybe post some drawings.


	4. The Sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear everytime I think: this chapter won't be so dark  
> And then I go into a certain discord server and my good friend Sweets is like: ITS NOT DARK ENOUGH.  
> And I'm like: ....damn right.  
> Extra thanks to Vixen for giving me some golden *wink* ideas that helped shape this chapter.  
> And also to my readers and commenters that give me the serotonin I need to continue writing this thing.  
> I hope you like it.

The thing about Zuko, is that it's incredibly satisfying to see him trip over himself just for a scrap of affection.

Once he was fully broken in, it was as if all his annoying imperfections and tiresome rough edges were filed away, leaving only a bleeding core of needy dependence.

It makes Ozai want to push, see how hard he needs to squeeze before he breaks.

It's just so different from his first marriage, down to it's core level. Ursa always had that sour look in her face whenever he was done with her, ruining his mood more often than not. She behaved well enough to fool the outsiders, but behind closed doors, she was just bitter and full of contempt for him.

She should have been grateful. She went from being a lowly small town actress to a member of the royal family. And yet, she acted like Ozai's attentions were a burden on her.

Maybe that's why Zuko's overeager need to please him was so satisfying.

And maybe that's why, the more he finds himself comparing him to his mother, the more he feels the need to punish him for all the things his mother failed at.

She'd been so protective of him.

Spending most of her free time pampering him, keeping him from growing a backbone. Trying to protect him from some perceived danger Ozai represented.

Well, she wasn't here now, and Zuko had no one to protect him. If Ozai asked him to jump, Zuko asked how high. If he ordered Zuko to humiliate himself and act more like a needy bitch than a person, Zuko did it, and brimmed with happiness if Ozai so much as showed a scrap of affection for him.

They say you shouldn't look a gift komodo rhino in the mouth, but Ozai did long to see what Zuko would do if he decided to push him over the edge. Do all those things that he often fantasized with doing to Ursa. What face he would make when he hurt him.

Azulon had always been a sticker for outside appearances. Ozai knew Ursa took this as an advantage, aware that he wasn't allowed to hurt her enough to leave a mark, or make the servants talk. But Azulon was gone, and Zuko belonged to him alone.

He starts small at first.

He grabs Zuko by the chin in the middle of dinner and forces a cucumber down his throat, just for his own amusement. Zuko spits and gags, and makes a gruesome sound that lets Ozai know he can barely breathe. Yet, he barely even struggles, and when Ozai orders him to keep that down for the rest of the evening, Zuko only nods, to the best of his ability, and keeps that sickly devoted look in his face as he struggles to push breath into his lungs.

That begins a pattern of experiments he indulges in with increased frequency.

He tries with burns during sex, but quickly grows bored of it. Zuko had long since grown used to his father's disciplinary punishments, and barely seems to notice as Ozai leaves burning red handprints on his hips and blisters in his arm.

So he switches tactics and in the middle of Fire Nation winter, he forbids him from wearing clothes.

That only makes him needier, clinging to Ozai at every chance he's got, shivering as he wraps himself around him at night.

Zuko quickly learns that if he wants to stay in the bed, he's got to make himself serviceable. It turns into quite the learning experience.

But it's not enough. Zuko may be obedient and pleasant enough, but his face is still too familiar, too reminiscent of Ursa. When he burrows closer after sex and tells Ozai how much he really loves to be his, Ozai can't help but remember Ursa's look of contempt as she turned around in their bed, her frown of distrust as she carried newborn Zuko in her arms.

What face would she make now? If she knew what he had done to her precious son?

Ozai can't decide what's sweeter. To hurt Zuko and imagine it's Ursa in his stead, or to picture what face his former wife would make as he fucked her dear son in the same bed he was conceived in, forced to watch as precious little Zuko begged for his father's cum.

He orders Zuko to start crawling on all fours next, and enjoys thinking it's Ursa, finally acting like the bitch she always was.

“You need to learn a lesson, daughter,” he tells Zuko whenever he starts getting that sad look on his face after too many a punishment, knowing he's beating and torturing himself on the inside, trying to find out what made his dear father punish him so. “Need to learn discipline, it's your mother's fault for coddling you too much.”

He enjoys that almost as much. Planting the seed of hate for his mother in him.

Zuko takes it all in stride, to Ozai's both pleasure and disappointment. Obviously a product of his weeks of training. Never complaints, only cleans off the mess and ask what else his so beloved husband asks of him.

Sometimes that means to edge himself from pleasure while Ozai does his work, watching him drive himself mad with need.

Other times, it's having to choose between keeping on his fingertips and toes while his mouth and ass threaten to be speared with thick carved wood cocks he had made just for this very purpose, or sink deeper, and lay all his weight over uncooked rice, struggling to breath through the wood stuffing his throat.

It's truly rewarding, to have him repress sobs of pain over a stuffed mouth, and yet, the moment he lets him off, allowing him to take a drag of opium, look at Ozai like he was Agni himself.

“I want to be good, father,” he begs with glassy eyes, everytime Ozai reprimands him for one slight or another. “Please show me how to be good”

And Ozai does, and wonders how long it will take until he truly breaks.

Yet, for more than he makes him bleed, and cry, and sniff like the pathetic creature he is, he never truly sees him crack.

Never sees that look of horror in his eyes, fear, a dread to see what Ozai will do next. Only smiles and brushes off the tears, and asks what comes next.

When he finally cracks, it's almost an accident.

He's just finished dealing with a pesky set of Earth Kingdom rebels, messing with his troops' resources. A simple matter that for some reason was taking his generals too long to solve. So he's taking it all out on Zuko, fucking him for what has to be the third time that night.

And Zuko, weak creature that he is, has long since lost any trace of dignity. His pipe discarded somewhere on the floor, but the traces of the smoke still pungent in the room, his golden eyes blown almost black.

Zuko trashes in the bed like a bitch in heat, grinning wildly and meeting Ozai's thrusts with his own needy rutting, fucking himself down his cock almost as forcibly as Ozai was doing to him.

And Ozai is trying to get off to his stupid whore, he doesn't give a damn if he's been fucked to the point of becoming dumb like a sack of rocks. But Zuko won't shut up.

Whenever the opium and the fuck got to his head, he would start babbling nonsense in his ear. And Ozai normally wouldn't care, but he can't get off with his stupid nonsense killing his mood.

He clamps one hand around his throat, trying to choke off the sounds, but he just keeps doing it, and the idea pops in his mind just a second before he does it.

He closes a fist on his throat and releases a small surge of lighting over his body.

Instantly he knows it's the best idea he's had since he made the kid his bride.

Zuko's whole body spasms, clenching deliciously over Ozai's cock and finally giving him his well needed release, all while his mouth opens into an anguished scream of pain.

He releases him before it gets strong enough to kill him, begrudgingly aware that he'd got no she for him dead and training another wife would be too much a hassle.

He lets Zuko fall into the bed, still twitching from the shock, his lips bloody after apparently biting himself.

Finally, he sees it, the fear written clear on Zuko's golden eyes.

Ozai grins.

Seems Zuko does indeed have a breaking point.

* * *

Despite what the stupid courtesans may think, Azula doesn't need a new mother.

She'd had one mother, who had completely failed at her job and ran away as soon as things got too heated for her, taking her brother away from her. Nevermind if that last part was slightly dubious, it was obviously her fault either way.

So, Azula didn't need another good for nothing weak noblewoman to play house with her. She was perfectly fine on her own.

She had thought father would be the same.

Father often said he and Azula were alike, they were obviously superior to everyone around them, and as so, unable to be weak.

Obviously, father wouldn't be weak enough to need another pathetic excuse of a woman to be his wife.

Which is why, when she first hears the rumours, she dismisses it as just another noblewoman trying to spread rumours of her apparent budding romance with the Firelord.

Of those there had been plenty, and Azula had always dismissed them with a sneer and laugh, rolling her eyes at whatever stupid airhead thought such rumours would aid her.

Except, this rumor doesn't fade away.

It grows.

_They say the Firelord already has a new bride. A beautiful young thing he keeps under lock and key in his rooms. How hurt he must be, after losing the other, that he won't even let the new one see the light of day for fear of losing her._

It's preposterous. Father doesn't need a woman, and he's not weak as to keep one under lock and key over pathetic fears.

But Azula isn't stupid, and she's too observant not to notice the truth there may be to those claims.

She sees the servants taking too much food for one person to her father's rooms. Sees the strange looks the maids give her, as if sympathetic and pitying at the same time. Notices that father shows up less and less to meet her.

It makes her sick.

And it makes her angry.

Because father was supposed to focus on her now. His heir. He was supposed to be teaching her how to rule the nation and become powerful enough to subjugate the other benders to her will.

He was not supposed to be losing time onto some useless woman.

So, Azula decides to take a look for herself.

She has no time for this nonsense, and if this woman is standing in her way, then she'll just get rid of her.

Simple as that, and just as easy.

She takes her chance deep into the night, scurrying out of her rooms, and making her way undetected to the secluded wing of the palace where her father sleeps.

It's late at night, she had figured everyone would be asleep by now, but as she moves closer, she manages to hear strange noises coming from within her father's rooms.

Someone 's awake.

She considers turning back, wait for another chance to strike, but she quickly dismisses that thought and keeps on her way. There's no way whoever this woman is will be strong enough to even hold a chance against Azula. Even if she's awake, it will only make it more entertaining to see her life snuff out with flame.

As she moves closer, the strange sounds start to take shape. Slapping flesh, a wet sort of squelching, whispers, sighs. A deep voice mixed with another raspy high pitched one.

Azula scrunches her nose, suddenly aware of what's probably going on behind closed doors. Twisting her mouth in disgust.

She should turn back, but she doesn't, something about the sounds being a bit too familiar. The second voice that's not her father being too close to something she can't quite remember.

For one second, she thinks her actual mother may be back, simply kept away as punishment for escaping. That's enough to make her take the last steps and peer inside the half closed room. Not thinking, for a second, that what she may see may not be something she wants to.

It all registers too fast and too slow at the same time.

Long black hair sprawled over red sheets, pale skin, much like her own, being held in her father's big hands. That same skin, stained with dark splotches of color, and strange marks. Her father mounting it, like a beast, like one of the animals she'd seen at a farm. Obscene sounds she can't make sense of.

“Yes father," the raspy voice recites, over and over like a prayer. “Touch me, make me good.”

Azula knows she should bolt, knows she's seen too much.

But then there's hands around it's throat, raising the creature's face into the light..

Azula stops breathing.

Zuko looks straight at her, with no recognition, only clouds in his eyes and lips open in the middle of a moan.

And then it shatters.

There's a crackle of electricity in the air, a scream of pain, her father's face, grinning horribly as he makes her brother contort in agony.

She runs.

Runs and runs until she's back at her room and trying to regain her breath.

For one moment, there's just static.

That was her brother, having sex. Her brother fornicating with her father.

A choked laugh makes it past her lips.

She really must be going crazy. Seeing things that weren't there. How preposterous. Her eyes must have played quite the trick on her.

Father is honorable and strong, powerful. He would not lower himself to such...acts. Least of all with her brother, dumb little Zuzu.

Yes, because, wasn't he the one that said Zuko was pathetic, and weak, and lucky to be born? Zuko was a crybaby, he still shed tears the last time mother took them to see Love Amongst the Dragons. Father wouldn't do that with him.

Besides, Zuzu was probably somewhere far away with mother. So, whatever she saw couldn't be possible.

Her eyes were just playing tricks on her.

It probably was just some stupid woman that reminded her a bit too much of Zuko. He'd always been a bit too soft and pretty faced, figures some girl looked like him.

That had be it.

But the more she tries to dismiss that thought, the least she's able to.

It had to have been a mistake. A trick of her eyes.

But the more she thinks about it, the more she can see Zuko in her memory. Those same eyes that still looked at her like she wasn't a monster. The dumb expression he got when he was proud of something. A face so much like her own contorted in an expression that shouldn't belong there.

It comes to her at the worst times. Keeping her from performing to the best of her abilities during training, and making her stumble over things she'd mastered long ago.

She decides then that it's time to put a stop to it.

If she can't concentrate over a dumb trick of her eyes, she just has to confirm it was indeed a mistake.

She's got to meet the stupid new wife.

She has to talk to father.

* * *

His body feels ill fit to his skin, feverish, boiling and weak.

Zuko thought he had learnt not to make mistakes. He'd become good at it, at making father satisfied. And when he was satisfied, it was almost as if Zuko really was his beloved wife, really important to him.

He can ignore the treacherous thought that there may be a lie in those words.

But he'd fucked up. He'd done something father didn't like.

Again.

Being too annoying and then too weak to take his father's bending quietly. He'd disappointed him, failed to live to his expectations, and for that, he'd taken away Zuko's only respite.

He'd taken his medicine.

It made Zuko grit his teeth, forcing a pitiful whine from escaping his throat as the pain washed over him again. Father claimed if he learnt his lesson, he would get it back, but it had been 2 days, and the more he waited to see father come around, the more his body felt like burning out.

_You need to learn that the only thing you need, is to make your father happy, be obedient. You need to learn your lesson, Zuko._

But Zuko is sick, can't father see that? Zuko is sick, and weak, and needs his medicine to keep the voices and the nausea at bay. He was only ever adequate because of the medicine, without it, he is puny, pathetic.

But father has already spoken and to think him wrong is treason. This is why he was punished, he needs to learn.

Mother had made him too soft, but she wasn't here no more, Zuko is mother now, and he has to be better to survive.

“Have you learnt your lesson, Zuko?” Father asks him, the third time since he took Zuko's medicine away. “Or do you need more time?”

His legs shake, his body too cold and too hot at once. There's rice under his knees, stained in blood, his backside still tender from being struck after throwing up today's food when the nausea got too strong. His head hangs low, lips trembling as he postrates himself in front of father, in his studio.

“I have. Please grant me your mercy, father. I won't make the same mistake again,” he begs, barely able to keep the pain from his voice or his teeth from clattering.

He dares look up at him, reclined back on his seat, in full Firelord regalia. Making Zuko feel even more inadequate, feverish and naked and partially bloody.

He must look anything but a wife. A dissapointment, like he always has been.

“Rise,” father orders, lighting a spark of hope in his chest. “Come earn your forgiveness, wife. See if I find myself merciful.”

He's not been merciful the past two days, but that doesn't stop Zuko from hoping, gathering the strength to stand even if his knees are burning with pain and his legs barely able to keep up his own weight.

He stumbles his way to his father's side, going through the motions of freeing his cock with practiced ease.

“How do you want me tonight?” He asks, grateful that he at least managed to prep himself that morning, through the haze of pain.

He's hoping to get told to just, bend over the desk and take it, or some other position that doesn't put much strain on his abused legs.

Father looks at him, the bare sliver of hope in his eyes, and smirks.

“I want you to ride me in this chair,” he orders.

Zuko feels his blood drain from his face.

“But, father, my knees, they're bloody, it will stain,” he tries to plead, not knowing if he's managing to smile gently or just grimace painfully.

“Did I ask for your opinion?” Father raises an eyebrow. “Or would you like to add disrespect to your list of list of slights?”

“No, father,” he responds quickly.

His heartbeat accelerates with the expectation of inescapable pain.

His legs tremble to much, he has to use his arms to support himself as he moves to straddle father, fighting down the grimace as his bloody knees meet with smooth velvet, the sensation closer to sandpaper.

_This is for father. You need to make him proud,_ he tells himself, forcing his legs to raise him up, as he positions father's erect cock to his entrance.

It's embarrassing, but even with his whole body burning up in agony, Zuko still feels the pleasure when he does this. Still moans in delight mixed with pain as he angles himself just right to please both himself and father. Still gets hard with the bolts of pleasure running up his spine, even if right now it's mixed with his whole lower side feeling like an exposed nerve.

It's like his body can't decide what to focus on, the agonizing drag of fabric over raw skin, father's robes slapping against the abused skin of his backside whenever he sank into his cock, his head swimming with pain and fever, or the pleasure making him release weepy moans into father's neck.

He tries to keep it down, it was his annoying babbling that got him into this, after all.

But he still keens over gritted teeth. Forcing himself to keep the sounds down by smothering himself with the smoky scent of his father.

If he focuses really hard, he can smell the sweet smoke in him as well, covered deep into layers of ash and incense.

Father grabs the back of his neck, releasing a show burst of electricity that rocks his body for a second of agony before letting go

“I didn't say you could hide from me, wife.”

Zuko's eyes sting with tears, his limbs twitching from the shock, but father doesn't mind, taking his body effortlessly with one hand and fucking Zuko's body like he were but a toy in his grasp.

His other hand forces Zuko to look at him.

His smile is almost cruel, sadistic, a thumb softly wiping a stray tear from his cheek.

“You're beautiful like this, are you aware of that, Zuko?”

It's such a tender thing to say, that Zuko is, for one moment, shocked at the words. A spark of pride and soft swelling devotion in his chest.

“Beautiful how?” He asks, not willing to believe that, in such a messy state as he is, he could be anything of the sort.

Father grins, his hand scorching hot as he makes Zuko lay his forehead against his.

“In pain,” he answers, thrusting even harder into his hole, his rutting eratric in the way that told Zuko he was close. “You know, your mother always made such an ugly face. Full of hate, she was a terrible wife. It's no wonder you struggle with even the simplest things. Never quite learnt respect, that one. You on the other hand, you look best with tears in that pretty face.”

His heart beats erratic. Nausea and something angry in the back of his throat.

He needs his medicine, his ears ring, he fists his hands on father's robe, trying to force down the strange rage that simmers in the pit of his stomach.

And then there's a knock at the door.

Both him and father still, their movements suddenly halted.

Father groans, an angry mar in his face that raises every alarm in Zuko's head.

“Who is it?” Father asks, his tone making it obvious that whoever is there should leave unless they dare meet a gruesome death.

A calm high pitched voice answers him.

“It's me father, I request an audience with you.”

Zuko's breath halts.

Because he recognizes that voice, and he is almost appalled at almost forgetting it in the first place.

Azula.

His sister.

Father scowls, pushing Zuko out of the chair too fast for Zuko to do anything other than land as a heap of limbs on the floor between the chair and his father's desk.

Father quickly rights his robe to normalcy, and kicks Zuko with one foot before sliding his chair into the crook of the desk, his erect cock still out of his pants.

He grabs Zuko by the hair and significantly pushes him towards his member before answering.

“You may enter, Azula. Make it quick.” he growls.

Zuko's lips wrap around father's cock, just as he hears the sound of the door open.

He can't see her, but it's easy to picture his little sister from the measured clicking of her heels as she enters the room.

She'd always liked to seem older than she was. It's a strange thought to have in this position, but she's only a year or so younger than him, yet she's there, still alive after interrupting father's recreational time, and here he is, sucking his father's cock under the table.

Something there is wrong, but he refuses to give much thought to it.

Instead, he focuses his mind into listening to the conversation. Something in him eager to hear the last member of his family close to him that wasn't father.

“...true? Have you found yourself a new wife?” He catches the trail end of Azula's question. Always direct to the point.

His breath stutters.

They're talking about him.

“I fail to see how such trivial matters entitle you to such a late night consult,” father answers, his tone concealed but clear enough to Zuko, who notices his irritation both in the subtle nuances of his voice and in the way he pushes Zuko farther down his cock.

“Well, father, you must understand I only do this out of concern for your image. If there's falsehoods being spread about you, I must quickly put them to rest. Surely you don't expect anything else from your crown princess”

Her words spark a seedling of fear he wasn't aware was possible on him, just feeling father's grip tighten, the twitch in his fingers he gets when he's about to strike him.

Why is Azula even asking this questions?

“My personal business is mine to deal with, Azula. Surely you don't insinuate I need a little girl to fight my battles?”

His heartbeat flutters, a part inside him hoping for Azula to just leave the matter alone, she has nothing to gain out of it.

Because he knows there's a reason father won't let him leave his room. Why the servants throw pitying looks at him.

They can't understand this is the only place where Zuko can actually be useful.

But Azula has never been one to easily give up, even if Zuko wishes she would just realize how precarious of a situation she's getting herself in.

“Of course not father. But, if there is a wife, I'd love to meet her, sooner rather than later.”

“Funny,” father sneers. “I thought you would be above such petty gossiping matters. Perhaps I should stop your bending lessons and make you a courtier instead.”

It's such a petty insult and an empty threat, father would never get rid of his only worthy child. But it still makes Zuko twitch, his lack of concentration making him choke for a second, forcing father to further push him down, to make his mouth full enough he can't utter a sound.

“You misunderstand father,” Azula says without missing a beat. “I'm only looking for your best interests at heart. Last time you got married, your wife ran off with your heir. I only seek to make sure she's a worthy companion to the Firelord.”

A part of him wishes father's soft spot for Azula will be enough to appease him, but the edge of vanity is still present in her voice, making father glare at her

“What would you know of worthiness.? You're nothing but a child,” his nails start to dig into Zuko's scalp. “A worthy wife, like a daughter, is trained to be disciplined and obedient. Both traits you seem to have forgotten.”

His words are a threat, and Zuko doesn't know if it's for Azula, or for him.

Azula shouldn't press for more. It would be foolish to do so. What does she even want with the Firelord's wife? To her, Zuko may as well be some faceless woman. Unimportant and worthless to her.

“You're right father,” Azula says bitterly, dread seeping into Zuko's stomach. “I wouldn't know the role of wives. Perhaps we should arrange a meeting with the members of your council. I'm sure they'll know better than me how to judge the would be princess consort”

That only angers Ozai more.

“You test my patience, insolent child. Perhaps it wasn't only Zuko who was badly influenced by your traitor of a mother,” he punctuates his words with another painful tug to Zuko's hair. For once, Zuko isn't sure what's meant to happen. Who's meant to get punished right now.

“Don't compare me with Zuko,” Azula snaps.

“You're my child and you have no right to give me any orders!” Ozai snaps back. “Perhaps it's time you're taught your place. Insolent girls have no place in my palace.”

Those words send a wave of panic through Zuko.

He imagines Azula, his proud, brave, intelligent sister. And he imagines her, being forced to go through just a sliver of what he's already taken.

Zuko's unworthy of anything better, he's happy where he is.

But not Azula. Azula deserves better. He can't let father discipline her the way he did Zuko.

He tugs at father's robes, pleading, begging him with his eyes to have mercy. Knowing full well to show weakness like this will only result worse on him.

Father looks down on him for a split second, the corner of his mouth quirked just slightly.

“An insolent mouth like that deserves to be. taught a lesson.” He says, words packed with more meaning than Azula even realizes.

Zuko's already taken all of father's pain and fire.

Azula won't take any, as long as he has a say in it.

He burrows closer, wrapping his arms around his father's hips, and nods.

Azula stands, silent, waiting for father's next words.

Under the table, Zuko gets her punishment.

He doesn't even realize what it is at first. Used to the taste and texture of cum in his mouth, but this flows faster and hotter than cum, filling his mouth with a bitter taste and almost making him choke in his haste to swallow it all.

The moment it hits him, his face burns hot with humiliation, his eyes filling with tears.

Father is peeing in his mouth. Relieving himself in Zuko as if he were nothing more than trash.

It overflows from his mouth and runs down his chest, burning at his still raw knees, making him shiver in disgust and revulsion.

He distantly hears father order Azula to leave before she tests his patience further. Bile burns hot in his throat, the need to puke overwhelming.

The door locks just as father takes his shiny wet cock away from Zuko's mouth, leaving him shivering, biting his lip bloody to keep himself from releasing the cries that want to come from his mouth.

This is it, isn't it?

There's no way father will want him after this.

He's disgusting and broken and a failure of a wife. Not even able to make his father happy, even when this was the last opportunity he had been given to redeem himself.

He keeps his eyes on the ground, waiting for the moment when father will finally order him to stop ruining his studio with his mere presence.

Instead, a gentle hand comes to rest stop his head, gentle fingers caressing his bruised scalp, drawing him closer with shushing noises.

“Ah Zuko,” father sighs, content. “Finally, you learn your lesson.”

He shakes his head wildly, unable to comprehend what's going on as father pushes him closer, letting him burrow against his body.

“I'm disgusting,” he sobs. “Not worth your mercy.”

“That's just what you had to learn Zuko.” Father takes his chin, making him raise his eyes. “You're not worth it, but I decide to keep you anyway. You had to learn to be humble enough to accept that.”

It brings forward overwhelming mix of repulsion for himself and devotion to his father. Knowing how precarious his own position is. Learning how lowly he really is.

“And you even took your sister's punishment, that makes me proud, you know?”

Warmth. A spark of warmth in his heart that has nothing to do with the fever. The littlest ember of hope burnt alight again.

“Like this, you really are perfect,” he whispers in Zuko's ear. “My perfect wife.”

A smile blossoms on his face. Jittery and euphoric as he clings impossibly closer to father. Burrowing his face in his chest till he can perfectly feel the beating of his heart.

“And your sister really does need to learn something from you...” He trails off as an afterthought, his words lost to Zuko, as he loses himself to his father's scent, the sweet pleasure of being loved, being wanted. “Perhaps we ought to pay her a visit.”

* * *

  
  


Azula knows this is a bad idea.

She knew she had pushed her luck that day with Father, at his studio. She'd let her own past successes and the need to finally silence the doubts eating away at her cloud her judgement.

Which is why, the invitation to eat dinner with father and his _new bride,_ brought such unease to her.

He'd been firmly against telling her anything before, so what had changed his mind?

Azula is not weak as to feel such stupid things like anxiety, but she can't help but tap her nails against the table the more it takes for father to arrive.

He's been acting weird as of late. Snappier than usual. It leaves a bad feeling in her mouth, something she's not sure she wants to uncoil.

Even the servants are flinching more than usual.

The memory from that night arises to haunt her again. She knows it's but a trick of her mind, but father's previous dismissal had made a part of herself wonder if it really was just that. What did he have to hide?

If anything, this dinner should be a proof otherwise. He wouldn't be extending the invitation if the truth laid elsewhere.

Yes, she had to calm herself.

Agni, brother was gone and suddenly she was becoming as much a worrywart as him, pathetic.

Finally, the doors to the dining room start to open, and she straightens in her chair. Ready to put her mind at ease once and for all.

For a moment, she wants to laugh at herself, getting pent up over such an outrageous idea.

And then her eyes finally catch on the woman at his father's side.

The worst part is, Azula doesn't recognize him right away.

She sees a girl, hanging on to her father's arm like a clingy pet. Hears soft measured steps that make no sound, women's clothes of the highest quality hanging from a body too small to be using such a provocative design, sees red lips, smiling, and golden eyes rimmed with kohl.

She feels relieved for too long, before her brother's face shines through the make up.

Because that's Zuzu, that's her brother, on his father's arm, dressed as a woman.

It's like someone suddenly dropped cold tea on her back.

“What is this?” She asks, with a voice too small and breathless to be coming from her, barely above a whisper.

Her father still catches it, smiling at her with a grin that Azula thought belonged only on her face. Seeing it come from her father's, sparks a fear she had not known was possible in her.

“You asked to meet my wife, didn't you, Azula? I decided to grant your wish.”

Her eyes must be playing tricks again, she feels impossibly small.

“But- that's Zuzu…”

It's like the wobble in her speech makes his grin wider, his step not hesitant as he takes a seat in front of her.

Like there isn't something twisted in this picture of his own making.

“Who else would it be, but your sister.”

_Sister_

There's a puzzle in front of her, all the pieces laid flat, but the image refusing to register in her head.

The Fire Nation is the greatest civilization in the world. Father is the strongest most powerful man in the Fire Nation. He's not feeble minded like her stupid uncle and her long gone mom.

So why is he holding Zuko so tight to his body? And why is he calling him a girl?

“Have you finally gone simple minded?” Father asks for an irritated sneer. “You should be thanking your new mother, it's all on her that I did not punish you for your insolence the other day. She took it instead, perhaps you should learn some humilty from her.”

Azula doesn't comprehend what those words mean. What punishment?

And why hasn't Zuko opened his dumb mouth like he so often did, irrationally? She just saw him a few months ago, he shouldn't be so different. That's her brother, for Agni's sake.

But as she searches that face, all she can find is his features, looking at her with something that isn't pity but isn't rage either.

He looks at her like he barely sees her at all, a glassy look in his eyes, a twitch to his lips that can barely be considered a smile.

Father slams his hand on the table.

“I fulfilled your whiny request, is this the answer I should be getting?”

Her head feels fuzzy, like someone was speaking in a language she couldn't quite comprehend.

She mumbles the words her father wants to hear, and watches in a haze as the servants place the food on the table.

Their eyes wide with horror as they too, notice who is sitting next to her father.

She doesn't even touch her food. Her eyes glued to her brother's form, as if trying to will him to become another person, some faceless woman she couldn't care less about.

Instead, it remains Zuzu, sick bile in her stomach the more she looks at him. His face lighting up with a sick devotion and disgusting love as he rests his head on father's shoulders.

Father's own sick delight as he presses Zuko even closer, practically maneuvering him to his lap.

Her head reminisces to a pair of servants she had once punished for fooling around in the gardens, their disgusting coupling being performed in a position not much different to that. She feels like throwing up.

Zuko doesn't even grab the food for himself.

Father takes it in his hands, and puts it on Zuko's mouth himself. His fingers lingering for too long on the piece of rice and fish, Zuko's lips wrapping around them, softly, sucking them onto his mouth. Red tongue coming to lap at the juices on father's fingers with a wet slurping sound, his golden eyes fixated to father with desire, _lust._

Azula chuckles.

It starts with a chuckle, at least, growing louder, stinger, manic, until she's dissolving into a fit of giggles right there on the dining table.

“This is a joke, right?” She hollers, her eyes darting quickly between father and Zuko. “It has to be!”

Father glares at her,but she ignores it, getting up and making her chair screch against the floor.

“What, did you finally win father's favor Zuko and wanted to get back at me?” She shouts at him. “What did you do? Kill mom for him or something?”

It really is the only possible solution, and it makes her wonder how she didn't figure it all out sooner.

“The make up and the dress are a nice touch, how did you even convince father to this?”

Her voice borders on hysterical, high pitched and manic. The whole wing of the palace probably able to hear it.

“Or did you really expect me to believe you were father's whore huh?!” Oh, she's angry, she's so fukcin angry, tears streaming down her face as she slams her hands on the table, swiping them down to throw the food on the ground. “Are you really that desperate for the throne Zuko?! Do you think sucking his dick will win you any favors?! Are you that pathetic?! Or would you rather go to the fucking earth army and suck dick for money until you can buy your own army since you're such a slut!”

She doesn't realize the way his eyes widen, the tremble of his hands under his wide sleeves.

“Are you that pathetic Zuko?! Come and say it right to my face! Is this what you've been up to all these months?! Bedding father for a chance at glory?!” She slams her hands down again, leaning forward till she's face to face with him. “Tell me!”

“Help me.”

Two words that slap her like a bucket of cold water.

Her brother's golden eyes wide, tears slowing down his cheeks silently, his whole body trembling.

“Help me, Azula.”

Horror envelops her just as a hand wrenches around her neck.

“Look at what you've done,” Father hisses in her ear, before throwing her across the table.

She doesn't try to land softly, crashing against the ground in a flurry of limbs, her shoulder cracking with an agonizing burst of pain against a pilar.

Father moves at her, slowly, threateningly; but all she sees is Zuko, staring at her with pure, unfiltered horror from beneath his dark hair, heaving for air like he was drowning.

“All these months of training, and you think you can just destroy that with a single childish tantrum.”

Father's voice is cold, slow, simmering with rage.

He grabs her neck, a vice grip that stops her breath as he raises her in the air.

“You're an insolent little pest on my back that I've been indulging for far too long. You need to learn respect.”

He grabs her cheek.

“And suffering will be your teacher.”

His hand lights aflame, burning light engulfing the left sight of her face.

She screams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think that's what the kids call, a plot twist.  
> Or not.  
> Anyway, next chapter maybe Zuko Will finally catch a break, we'll see. (Also, question, would you guys like, want chapter specific warnings in this notes?)  
> Like I said time, you can catch me at @tangerinesock on Tumblr, hope you enjoyed this. Have a lovely day!


	5. The Letters: Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An early update? In this fic? More likely than you think.  
> Before anything guys, I'd like to say, that earlier today I got the best of surprises. My deal pal, paintedbluerose, wrote fic, of this fic. This is the peak of my writer career.  
> I legit have had a smile in my face since I saw that earlier today.  
> Pls take a look at it if you're able to. I think it will be automatically linked at the end this chapter? Usually they do.  
> Anyway, have this chapter! The longest to date, almost 9k words. Hope you like it, it was a lot of fun to write, even if you'll likely hate me after it, more.  
> I luv you guys, pls have fun.

_ To Prince Iroh of the Line of Sozin. General of the 21st Division, 2nd in line to the Fire Throne and Dragon of the West. _

_ It is, with no amount of pleasure, that your niece reaches out to you in your time of need.  _

_ Your failure at the doors of Ba Sing Se brings immense disappointment to the royal family, and further dishonor to the house of Sozin. It is for this reason that I've seen fit to summon you, once more, to our ancestral home in Caldera.  _

_ Take this, not as a favor asked of you, but as an opportunity of redemption given by your family, to clean your name. Your presence is summoned with the utmost urgency. Failure to concede will be seen as a slight against not only your family, but your country as well. _

_ Come home, General Iroh. Or face the consequences. _

_ Signed, Princess Azula of the line of Sozin, Crown Princess to the Fire Throne. _

* * *

Bedridden and in the throes of infection, Azula has a lot of time to think about her family.

Half her face is no more, taken away by her own father's flame, infected and blistering. Her shoulder shattered. The doctors said it would take months before she was able to use it right, and as for her face, well, her hearing and eyesight would never be the same. 

That's what she hears at least, in between the delusions.

She doesn't know if it's all in her head, or simply a product of the fever, maybe even a mix of both.

She sees mother, standing at the foot of the bed, glaring at her with contempt, anger. 

_ “You let him hurt him.” _

_ It's not my fault _ , she wants to scream.  _ You left us with him.  _

But she knows it's an excuse.

Azula is the only one left in her family with a sliver of sanity, and failing to see her father's perversion was to no fault but her own. 

She should have known Zuko wouldn't leave just like that. Should have known better than to overlook the secrecy of his father's new wife. Should have known better than to delude herself otherwise. 

Father had once said her uncle was a fool to give up the battle just for the death of his son. But didn't that make  _ him  _ a fool too? Using his own kin to replace a wife that clearly never held any devotion to either him or her kids. Breaking her brother, who had never been anything less than loyal, for his own amusement.

Zuko and Azula had never gotten along well. Zuko was weak, soft hearted and talentless, the complete opposite of Azula. But he was… he was family. He was loyal. He still played with her even when he knew she would find a way to hurt him. Still got angry at the girls in her school calling her a monster. Still looked up at her even when all Azula ever did was look down. 

Zuko was her brother. He didn't deserve to be broken to insanity and turned into father's plaything. 

Sometimes, Zuko is the one scowling at her.

Not  _ her _ brother, boyish and proud. But the creature his father turned him to. He too stands at the edge of her bed, naked like the time she saw him in father's bed, bruised and battered and with that lustful gleam in his eyes. He crawls up her bed, like a cursed spirit in a horror story, and screams at her.

_ “Is this what you wanted?” _

She'd wanted Zuko out of her life, taking the space she deserved when he wasn't worthy of it. She'd wanted to be crown princess. She'd wanted to be father's one and only pride.

Now she realizes the pride of a man who is capable of twisting his child like that is not something she wants for herself.

A man like that is sick, perverted, weak. 

A man like that doesn't deserve her devotion, nor Zuko's, and least of all, doesn't deserve to be Firelord.

She sends the first letter the moment she's coherent enough to write. Hides it, amongst mail she knows her father won't deem important enough to read. 

A letter to Ty Lee, cancelling their spring trip to Ember Island. One to the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, opting out due to needing time for recovery after her  _ accident _ . One to Mai, telling her to cancel her appointed visits to the palace.

After that, it still takes her too long to get out of the bed.

She wobbles pitifully, and trips over the littlest of things. A combination of not being able to see from one eye, and the pain medicines keeping her head stuffed with cotton. 

She tries to firebend, and flinches at her own flame. She spends weeks, sitting in her bed, willing herself not to pull away from her own fire. Bites through the pain in her shoulder, and repeats kata after kata in an effort to make it be perfect once more. Flawless. 

She refuses to be broken like Zuko. Refuses to give in, even if her face is torn off and her worldview shattered. 

The day she's finally cleared to leave her rooms, she requests an audience with the Firelady, and finds father made an effort to keep her away from her brother.

There's no Firelady, the servants tell her, averting her eyes. 

Father refuses every single one of her summons. 

She tries to hatch a plan. Thinks it through for hours, when she sleeps and when she eats. A way to save Zuko, save herself. 

Mai and Ty Lee come through her mind a handful of times, when their letters, full of questions, come over and over at her doors. She refuses to answer them. The both of them served her out of fear, loyalty to her strength. She can show them her marred face, nor admit the horrors taking place inside the palace.

That's why she calls for uncle. Weak, soft hearted uncle, who let himself be defeated instead of avenging his son. A fool he is, yes, but a fool who had achieved more on the battlefield than father ever could. A fool that had always been a bit too much attached to Zuko. Obsessed, with doting on him, almost as much as mother had been, before giving up the pretense. If anything, uncle should be loyal enough to Zuko, enough to defy the Firelord and help her save him.

There's not a lot of people willing to do that, and for now, uncle is the only person in that list she's willing to trust.

Uncle doesn't come. 

Doesn't even respond to her letter. A letter worded vaguely, yes, but conveying the urgency of her situation. 

Did the fact that it was  _ her,  _ asking for  _ his _ help, not clue him in enough of how dire the situation is?

She can't let any more time pass.

It's been four months since she got burned, and Azula swears she can hear Zuko's screams, everytime she closes her eyes. Everynight, when the servants leave, she presses her ear to the door, and swears she can hear Zuko's voice flooding through the halls, begging her father for mercy. 

Yet, everytime she sends a request to father, it's denied. She starts to grow desperate. She wonders if she'll be able to recognize Zuko next time, see her brother under the artificial embellishments. She wonders if she'll find a stranger next time.

The fourth month, Azula steals a servant's clothes and sneaks outside of the palace.

If uncle didn't respond to her call for help, he would be forced to respond to the ugly truth.

It's strangely easy to blend in. Azula had never found the need to go to the city undetected, she prided herself on her position above the rest of the commoners. 

But Crown Princess Azula didn't get to send a messenger hawk without her father knowing about it. 

A no name commoner, however, raises no eyebrows by buying a hawk and postal box for her troubles. People don't look at her for more than a second, and those who do, quickly avert their eyes the moment they notice the bandage covering half of her face.

She's almost done preparing her letter when the woman taps her shoulder, almost making Azula incinerate her on the spot.

“Excuse me dear, I don't mean to intrude but, are you okay?”

Azula represses the urge to sneer and ask the woman how dare she question a member of the royal family. Instead, she glares at her. Reminding herself, she needs to keep a low profile for this. 

“None of your business,” she mutters, strapping the letter to the leg of her fire-hawk.

That, however, doesn't seem enough to repel the woman.

“I'm sorry, I just, I noticed the wound, and the clothes,” she says, gesturing at her face. “If they're not treating you well at the palace, my sister and I run a store, at the port. It's not a lot, but it is good money. I could find you a job there.”

For one moment she doesn't understand the woman's words, frowning at her strange offer. Then, it registers. The clothes and her face; she must think she's some poor young maid being abused by her master at the palace.

“I shall not speak of the palace's business,” she rolls her eyes, dismissing the woman without a second thought.

Servants who go speaking ill about what they see inside the palace don't last too long either way. It's an easy excuse to fall behind. 

“Of course,” the woman nods with a grimace. “With everything going on inside those walls, I don't blame you for wanting to keep quiet. It must be hard, with all the tension going around. I've heard the Firelord, Agni bless him, has taken it real hard, barely out of his rooms.”

Azula has no time nor patience for things such as gossip or sympathy, and yet, an idea comes to her. A way to, maybe, force father to stop keeping Zuko under lock and key. 

“You know,” she says, leaning closer to the woman with a conspiratorial tone. “There's actually another reason why the Firelord's been kept so secluded…”

* * *

_ Uncle, _

_ I contact you again, through much simpler means, as you have seen fit to ignore my summons and as so, put a hindrance on the safety of those you claim to hold dear. _

_ My brother, despite what the Firelord claims, has not run away with our mother. He's in the palace, suffering tortures of which you cannot entertain in your simple mind.  _

_ My father, your own brother, has been consumed by madness, proclaiming Zuko, his own son, as his new wife, with all that such position entails.  _

_ Do you understand this?  _

_ Your dear Zuko is in danger. You need to abandon your foolish self pity and come to his aid, before it's too late. _

_ We cannot waste any more time. _

_ Your niece, Azula.  _

* * *

In her free time, she tries to find a way to Zuko.

Father packs up her days with bending lessons and boatload of other things he had never bothered to have her learn before. He's stalling her, making sure she has too little time to intrude in his business. But Azula is nothing if not efficient, and multitasking is barely a problem if it helps her get what she wants.

The rumour was already spreading out, the benefits of blabbing off to a woman with too little self preservation and a job that had her talking to every soldier and merchant coming through the docks of Caldera. 

It won't be long till the rumor is too big for father to ignore.

Azula hopes his answer gives her the chance to finally reach her brother. When it does, she plans to be prepared to grab him, and run.

She takes advantage of her renewed number of classes to conceal the amount of visits she makes to the library, not making her assigned homework, but gathering every blueprint of the palace she can find.

There's got to be a way, for royals are nothing if not paranoid, to sneak outside the palace undetected. Some escape route she can take Zuko on that father isn't aware of. 

She'd rather kill father, and admitting to that brings her no pleasure but a grim sort of awareness. Like finding a treat you used to delight on and realizing it's grown rotten at it's core, knowing you have to get rid of it. 

She knows it's something that has to be done, and at the same time, she knows she's not strong enough to manage it.

Not for lack of want, but a lack of power. 

For more that she trains, she still sees the erratic shake of her left arm, sees her bending form weakened and crooked, and knows if she were to fight her father again, he would exploit that, and he would not grant her the mercy of just burning her face off this time.

She hopes, if it comes to that, he'd rather kill her than make her like Zuko.

That's why she needs uncle, to do the job for her, do the deed she's not able to, and be ready to die if that's what it takes to get Zuko out of the palace.

Quick.

Before Zuko becomes little more than a shell of his former self, painted pretty and trained to be nothing more than her father's doll.

Iroh's response comes at the end of the fifth month, and with it, comes father's summon.

* * *

_ Dear niece: _

_ It pains me to write a reply knowing well it shan't be well received. You're your father's child, and it pains me to see you taken so far by his teachings. _

_ Dear Azula, your father is a man of ruthlessness, as I'm sure you're aware, but a madman he's not, and though I'm sure he wishes to see me fall, I'm appalled you'd resort to such tricks to bring me to his doors. _

_ You're right to believe in my love for your brother, but you shall not exploit it in my hour of weakness. If your father has indeed taken a wife, I do hope she is a woman to whom you can relate, and who cares for you, not another bid to ascend to power. You deserve that much. _

_ Please don't contact me again dear niece, you can assure your father I have no wish to interfere with his reign, my only hope is to live the rest of my days peacefully, away from the hardships of the court. _

_ Take care  _

_ -Your Uncle, Retired General Iroh. _

* * *

She's still shaking with rage, the letter quickly turned to ashes in her hand as she makes her way to her father's room.

It doesn't come to her mind that she's not seen father since the day she learnt of his depravity, the day he burned her.

No, all she thinks about is her stupid uncle, blinded by his own idealized version of the world, refusing to believe her when she'd lowered herself to ask for his help.

Stupid enough to leave both her and Zuko to their father's mercy. 

She grits her teeth to refrain a scream, her jaw painfully sore. 

She takes a moment to stop at father's door. Breathing deeply and schooling her face into the closest she can bring to indifference. 

Father will be testing her for weakness, try and find a reason to deem her broken or unfit. After all, he's got no use for damaged tools. 

She'd thought once to be the one tool he wouldn't be able to replace. Now, she realizes, touching the bandage in her face, she understands she's but another thing to discard.

As long as Zuko's trapped with him, she can't allow herself to be discarded.

She opens the door, and immediately, finds her resolve tested.

Father sits at the corner of his bed, wearing a loose and crumpled robe, a look that would have, once, been as alien to her as him bending water. Yet, she can't bring herself to look at him, her eyes drawn, instead, to the figure reclined across his lap. 

This time, Zuko doesn't even seem to notice her, his fingers holding a steaming pipe to his lips, glassy golden eyes lost nowhere. His thin red robe is pushed up his bare butt, father's fingers thrusting inside him.

Her face burns, a thick knot in her throat. She has to force her step not to falter, her movements steady as she takes her place, bowing to father.

Zuko had asked her for help, he'd looked terrified. 

And now he just looked, content? Casual and unbothered, even as his own father was pushing his fingers inside his ass, making small needy noises against the pipe in his lips, pressing back. 

Was it all an act? Was he asking for help behind it?

Was she too late?

“You're awfully quiet,” Father's voice brings her back to reality, a inquisitive quirk of his brow letting her know, he already wasn't in a good mood.

“Just admiring your handiwork,” she responds quickly, “I know better now than to speak when I'm not wanted to.”

“Did you?” Father asks, voice cold, as he pushes harder inside Zuko, who muffles a whimper into the sheets. “Tell me, Azula, are you aware of why you're here?”

She has a few ideas, but to admit those would be a death sentence. Instead, she gives the answer she has been planning for weeks now.

“Have you seen fit to give me a task to regain my honor?”

She's a tool, a piece on the table for his use. The one thing he'd love more than harm her will be to find her an use. 

To regain his trust, she's willing to do anything.

Azula cares not who she has to murder or torture, what impossible task she's got to achieve. If it gets father to trust her enough, to let her get close enough to Zuko, she's ready to do it.

Father chuckles, an amused glint to his eye as he finally gets his hand out of Zuko, using it to fondle him like one would a particularly fat pet.

“Not quite. You see, I received quite the interesting request from my advisors today.”

Azula does not swallow, her face impassive.

“Apparently, word's got out about my new marriage. Enough for the Fire Sages to get requests for it to get confirmed. The court does not appreciate being kept from the matters of their Firelord's life.” 

Agni help her, if that stupid woman from the docks got out alive from this, she was buying her a house on ember island. 

"Is that so?” She says instead, putting on a disgusted face. “Surely they have better matters to attend to in the middle of a war?”

“My exact thoughts,” father nods, his tone icy, carding his fingers through Zuko's hair slowly. “I wondered, who would have enough insight and be foolish enough to go blabering off about it? Surely you won't know any of it?”

A complacent smile forms in her face, not entirely a lie, and she masks the glee she feels by bowing even lower, feigning a slight tremble to her shoulders that she hopes father takes as fear from him. If she can get him to believe she's got enough fear to tremble, she can make him believe she's fearful enough to never risk slighting him again.

“I would never father. I've thrown myself to your orders, my time is fully devoted to you.”

Father doesn't answer, and Azula doesn't look up. He's assessing her, measuring her reactions, trying to decide if she deserves to be kept in his hand or thrown away.

It takes him a bit too long to decide.

“Rise,” he grumbles, eventually. “You shall arrange for the execution of every servant assigned to Zuko, I'll find the replacements. That shall dissuade anyone from further loosening their tongues.”

Zuko twitches, a jerky flinch that catches her eye but doesn't last enough to hold any significance. He only continues to inhale harder from his pipe.

“Of course father,” she replies, before he notices her distraction. “Your orders shall be executed no later than tomorrow.”

She straightens out, ready to take her leave. 

“I'm not done yet.”

Her jaw clenches.

She turns back, her usual placid smirk back again in her face.

“Anything else I can help you with? Father?”

He smirks, maneuvering Zuko till he's sitting in his lap, the position awfully reminiscent of that night at the dinner hall. Father grabs his face, a pleased humm in his throat as Zuko instantly smiles dizzily at him.

“You mentioned you were admiring my handiwork earlier,” he begins, patting Zuko's cheek before turning his face towards her. “What did you think?”

Zuko's finally looking straight at her. she knows father expects her to betray her intentions with her words. Knows that it will be harder for her to lie with Zuko looking at her like a dazed out turtleduck. 

But Azula knows she'd rather hurt Zuzu now than lose the chance to save him later.

“I admit it surprised me, at first,” she begins, embellishing her lies with the truth. “But now I realize you've found a superior use for Zuko. He's clearly more fit as a bedwarmer than a prince.”

The moment father grins wider, she knows she made a mistake somehow.

“ _ She _ is pretty, isn't she?” He says instead, squishing Zuko's rosy cheeks with one hand. “Prettier than your mother. Perhaps you also would have turned out well in time, but I guess we'll never find out now.”

The scar itches under her bandage.

“Beauty is a distraction. I'm far better this way,” she forces herself to say indifferently.

“Ah Azula, but you've clearly never seen beauty like this first hand,” father tutts her, a cruel edge in his words. “Perhaps you need a demonstration, to learn why Zuko is where she is.”

Dread sinks to her stomach.

“A demonstration?”

“Disrobe your sister,” father orders her.

Now, Azula really has a hard time not to flinch.

She stands there, frozen for a second too long, processing the implications of her father's words. Zuko beats her to it, standing from the bed, leaving his pipe on a table, and moving towards her with steps that are too calm and steady for someone who has to know how wrong any of this is.

“Of course father,” she responds.

Her hands shake, thankfully hidden by Zuko's body, standing between her and father. 

He's still taller than her, even when he looked so small next to father. It isn't fair. He still has that stupidly gentle older brother aura, even while looking like a stupid doll. 

She gets rid of his sash, the terribly thin robe coming undone too easily after that.

Everything becomes much too real.

Zuko is not wearing anything underneath that robe, and the evidence from the past year is all evident in his skin. 

His knees are pink and tender with scarred flesh. His thighs and hips riddled with finger shaped burns. His waist is too small, curving in a feminine fashion even Azula had yet to achieve.

What was father doing to him?

His face is even prettier from up close, softer than she remembered. Girly. If it weren't for what hangs between his legs, Azula would have assumed him to be replaced by a female lookalike.

“You see it too, don't you Azula?” Father calls from the bed, his face contorted in satisfaction. “Zuko's body is made for fucking.”

Zuko should be thirteen now. Even earth kingdom savages don't allow their daughters to be married until sixteen.

“She begs for it too, don't be fooled by that innocent face,” he motions them closer, taking Zuko the moment he's close enough and pushing him down onto the bed. “She likes it, don't you, wife?”

Zuko finally looks at her, really looks at her, sees her, for the first time since she entered that room. He's all awkward limbs and a figure too perfect in a body too small, his loopy grin reminding her too much of afternoons in the beach, mocking the ember island players.

“It's okay Azula,” he says, his voice still recognizable, at least. “Father takes care of me, I like being his wife.”

Those words shouldn't be in his mouth.

“I like bedding him.”

They wouldn't be.

“He makes me feel good.”

If it weren't for her.

“Spread your sister's legs, Azula.”

There's bile in her stomach and a scream caught in her throat. 

In contrast to how she feels inside, Azula's body moves calmly, as if bored. She grabs Zuko's skinny legs, and hauls them up and apart, till they rest wide open at either side of his body. 

Her face burns with shame at her exposed brother's body. Opened wide like a sacrifice to an angry god. His arousal stark against his stomach, his entrance glistening and open.

This is something that happens often. Often enough Zuko has grown used to it.

Her father disrobes, and she averts her eyes. She forces herself to look only at Zuko. 

Zuko, who grimaces when he sees her face up close, and blinks away tears when his eyes meet with her only visible one.

“It will be okay,” he mutters, as if she's the one needing comfort here. “It's al-”

His voice dissolves into a needy moan, father entering him in a single deep thrust that almost shakes Azula with it.

She becomes a mere spectator; keeping Zuko's legs spread wide as father uses his body for his pleasure. Thrusting in and out of him like a beast. Crushing Zuko's much smaller body with his, to drown his cries with kisses.

She hears the wet gargle of father's tongue choking Zuko's mouth, sees his hand sneaking down Zuko's chest and coming to rub indulgently at the flesh between his legs. Hears father whisper the dirtiest of words into Zuko's ears, and heard him answer back.

“Show your sister how much you love your father's big cock Zuko. Show him what a little slut you are. Scream like I know you can.”

Zuko looks at father as if those words were a declaration of love, wraps his hands around his shoulders and invites him even closer. Clings to his dirty kisses like they contain the breath he needs to live, and allows himself to be dirtied and debased. 

She makes it through the night, holding Zuko in endless debauched positions, until father collapses exhausted on top of Zuko. His disgusting penis still inside her brother. He dares Azula to do something, say anything, while he holds Zuko's exhausted and sleepy face in his hands.

She bows her dismissal without another word, and makes it gracefully to her own room before she throws up.

* * *

_ To Uncle: _

_ Zuko was wrong, you deserve nothing. _

_ When you stop being a fucking idiot, know you have lost any right to him. _

* * *

There was no reason for Zuko to be afraid.

How long had it been? A year? Since he stopped being a prince and became his father's wife. It felt longer.

Father said he had to perform the part of his wife in public now, join him in meetings and social gatherings for the purpose of appeasing the court. 

They wouldn't know it was him, they wouldn't understand, or so father explained to him. Zuko, the prince, had no right to remain in the palace. So Zuko had to pretend to be someone else, a different girl, married to his father.

It made him want to run off.

He didn't even have his medicine as a crutch, father saying it made him too light headed for the public. So it was just him, and a head with thoughts too clear to be any consolation.

He'd gone ill again recently, the effects still making him crave his medicine with renewed vigor. The thought of going an entire evening without it felt agonizing, especially with what he had at stake.

It wasn't like he really was recognizable. His hair had grown longer, his face changed, the femenine clothes making him look every part a lady of the court. 

And father has seen fit to make changes to his body as well. A corset to cinch his waist into a figure more mature than it would be expected for someone his age; and a tasteless tea he was forced to drink three times a day, meant to keep him femenine, soft faced.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he really barely even resembled the Zuko from a year ago. 

Maybe it was for the better. Zuko didn't feel like he could be that person anymore, couldn't even remember who that person was. The Zuko of now was better anyway, loved by father, useful, sometimes even happy. 

“Perhaps we should give them a show, teach them not to question their Firelord,” father groans in his ear, embracing him from behind and pushing his hard cock against Zuko's clothed ass.

Father hadn't been fond of the arrangement. Zuko had been sure, for a moment, that he would just execute the advisors pushing for presenting his wife, instead of actually going through with it.

But in the end, he had just taken his frustrations out in Zuko, as usual. The rest was history. 

“If that's your wish, father, perhaps I should lose some of the clothes. For easier access.” Zuko replies, knowing better than to give any further opinion. If father wanted something, it wasn't Zuko's place to deny him. 

That makes father smile, and as so, it makes Zuko feel better already. 

“You'd like that, wouldn't you Zuko?” He grins, pressing even closer against him. “Did you like showing your sister how much you love your father? Want to show the whole Fire Nation now?” 

He really doesn't know if he does. The thought of being so debased in front of so many people brings a visceral sense of horror to him, shame. Yet at the same time, he can't help but blush at the image. A part of him itching for father to show everyone how much he loves Zuko. How much he wants him. It makes him yearn for it almost as much as he dreads the idea.

Azula had been different. Zuko had failed to keep her safe, going so far as to get sick just when she needed him most. Barely conscious while she was suffering from her burns. She deserved to see him humiliated, it was the least Zuko could do.

Other people would just look on, and see the whore he was for his father. They would see how twisted their prince had become.

But that's the wrong thing to say. Father doesn't deserve a treacherous wife.

“I'd love to, father. I want them to know I'm yours.”

What zuko wants doesn't matter. It's what father wants that's important. Humiliation and pain meant nothing next to disappointing him. 

A lesson that had been drilled enough times into his head. 

He just has to focus on the pleasure, the satisfaction of knowing father loves him too much to keep his hands off his body. 

That satisfies father, his hand sneaking under the ceremonial robe Zuko had been dressed in for the evening.

“Then get rid of those underclothes quickly.”

* * *

Zuko clings closer to father's arm.

Vaguely, he's able to remember past social events, not much different from this. Parties held for trivial matters as an excuse to show off and gossip the latest information of interest amongst the court. Someone's new engagement, an admiral's son becoming eligible for marriage. 

Their Firelord's new wife.

Zuko remembers one thing clearly, and it's that he doesn't like to be the center of attention.

The members of the court eye him critically, their eyes like pin pricks over his skin as father parades him across the hall and towards his seat at the dining table, much too slow for Zuko's taste.

He knows what they're thinking, and it fills him with unease. He's a bit too soft faced, a bit too petite, they'll assume he's not of noble blood, since they can't recognize his face. 

Someone is bound to connect the dots, Zuko thinks, barely sighing in relief as they finally make it to their seats; someone is bound to realize he's not just an awfully young peasant that happened to catch their Firelord's eye. 

He can't bear to even stomach the thought.

Father grabs his arm right before he takes a seat next to him, dragging him forcibly to sit on his lap instead.

Zuko's face reddens just as one of father's advisors, to his left, has a choking fit. 

“Your majesty, some people may take it inappropriately,” Whispers the man, who is obviously either really brave or really foolish; his face flushed in indignation.

“They'll have to excuse my wife,” father replies to the advisor with a glare. “She's clingy.”

But Zuko knows that's an excuse.

The real reason lies in father's hard cock, pressed flush against Zuko's butt even after they satisfied their thirst in his rooms earlier.

His words from before come back again to Zuko's mind.

He wouldn't really do it, right? Not in front of everyone.

And yet, father's hand starts sneaking underneath Zuko's skirt, slowly but surely hitching it up from behind. His face burns, his breath hitching as he struggles not too move, trying desperately not to call any attention. Father fiddles with his own robes as well, his intentions becoming clear to Zuko 

Next to them, the advisor takes one look at their sudden shuffle and pointedly grows even more red in the face, averting his eyes quickly.

Zuko bites his lip to prevent a whine from escaping him, a despaired noise tinged with a dash of lustful thrill.

He can feel father's arousal now, unclothed and pressed tight against his flesh, positioning at the entrance of his still loose hole.

“Quite a bold move to bring Zuzu here.”

Zuko jumps in place, eyes snapping to Azula, who takes the seat closest to them, her eyes narrowed and cold.

Zuko averts his eyes in shame, even if father isn't bothered, his hand not even twitching.

“Now, why wouldn't I want to show off my beautiful wife, Azula?” He says, leaning in and promptly spearing Zuko in a single thrust, a choked off moan escaping him before he can help himself.

And Azula must notice, her face growing pinched in sour distaste. The bandage around her face becoming more evident with her cheeks blushing red.

Zuko wants to hide his face and never look at her again. He knows she shares the sentiment. It's hard to be aroused with his own sister watching him, the proof of his uselessness blatantly written in her face. 

She must hate him. 

Half her face is destroyed, and here he is, enjoying the pleasure of his father's cock. Hardly a fair trade.

“No reason, father,” she averts her eyes. “I just assumed you had a preference for  _ discretion.” _

Father chuckles, the movement tousling Zuko slightly and making his cock brush a sensitive spot inside him. He bites his lips to keep his own delighted sounds from coming out.

“Oh Azula, you'll soon learn that the best way to discipline those who challenge you, is to give them exactly what they want, and make them hate it in return.”

The courtiers have finally noticed Azula taking seat, and they make quick haste of following her example, to Zuko's dismay.

Quickly, the seats in front of them start filling out, and with it, the pressure on Zuko to keep as quiet and still as possible. 

It's even worse when it's people he knows. Mai's parents, Ukano and Michi, taking seat almost in front of them; and right next to them one of father's most loyal commanders, Zhao. A man who Zuko had despised even before he stopped being prince.

“What a joy to be here with you, your Majesty, especially on such a joyous occasion.” Mai's mother says, always the socialite.

Father sinks his nails into Zuko's thigh before he has a chance to say anything. 

“Indeed, your majesty,” Zhao butts in with a practiced smile on his face. “One's ought to congratulate you; for acquiring such beauty.”

Are they aware of what's going under the table? Are they enjoying the show of their Firelord's slutty whore of a wife getting stuffed with cock for everyone to see? Are they laughing in their minds at his pinched face, barely able to keep the pleasure from showing?

Father mutters some empty pleasantry, polite enough to appease them, but not inviting enough to lead them into thinking he's interested in further conversation. Still, they clearly don't take the hint, and use the chance to keep blabbing father's ear off for as long as he'll allow it.

Zuko takes what little comfort he can get and enjoys the chance of a respite against the forced pleasure Father lays on him.

Still, Zuko can notice father growing more irritated by the minute, growing inpatient at their empty talk and blatant attempts to get on his good side. Next thing he knows, father is taking advantage of the food present in front of them to lean over, and uses the movement to disguise pulling his cock in and out of Zuko. Dragging his cock along his walls with terribly slow movements at each bite of food he leans to get.

Soon, Zuko is begging him to keep stuffing food in his mouth if only to have something to do instead of biting his lips bloody to keep from moaning.

Worse still, Zuko feels like everyone can see him. Their judgemental stares not having decreased, not even now. Especially Zhao, the man seemingly having no interest in his food, drilling holes into Zuko's face, fixating on him and smiling that creepy smile of his.

Zuko would hit him if he was able to. If he wasn't more occupied trying to keep his dignity in check with father slowly thrusting into his ass in a hall full of people.

“It was a tragedy, what happened,” Mai's father continues his blabbering. “But one is ought to move forward. It's comforting to see you've picked quite the educated bride this time.” 

Zuko resists the urge to roll his eyes.

He should know better now. Zuko's no longer a prince, but a wife. And as much as those old habits want to come forward in a situation so reminiscent to his past life, he needs to keep his mouth shut. 

He's just here to look pretty and satisfy his father's needs. Everything else is not worth his attention.

“Oh, cut her a break Ukano,” Mai's mom says with an airy laugh, either noticing Zuko's discomfort or sensing a sensitive topic that could go wrong for her husband. “The girl is clearly shy, there's no need to bring up old conquests.”

All their eyes turn on him, clearly expecting some sort of answer, maybe a comment on his mother? 

But father had told him not to speak. To keep quiet and be invisible. He's not supposed to talk.

“She's from the colonies,” he cuts in, an unusually polite tone to his voice. “You'll have to forgive her, she's still not used to the dialect of Caldera.”

A clearly thought out excuse. The topic of marrying colonizers is still very controversial in court. One where they could offend anyone no matter that they say. 

They move away from the topic as if it was rotten.

Father must find his lack of response satisfying, for his hand starts to sneak up Zuko's skirt again, slowly but surely till it comes to cup between his legs. 

He chokes off a moan.

“I'm sure everyone must have told you already, but you make a wonderful pair. Your children are sure to be beautiful,” says Mai's mother, clearly not noticing or uncaring of Zuko's sudden reaction.

Zuko chokes in air alone.

“Ah yes, since our good Zuko was lost, a few extra heirs wouldn't be bad. Especially with the animosity brewing in the rebel groups,” Mai's father agrees.

Father's hand rubs him pleasantly, dragging little bits of pleasure out of him, and yet, Zuko's mind buzzes with the implications of those words.

Was father expecting such a thing from him? Would he bereft Zuko for not being able to give it? Was he a bad wife for not being able to bear him any heirs?

“There's no such need for that,” Azula snaps for the first time in a while, slamming her drink down forcefully and turning to glare at both of Mai's parents. “Make no mistake, there is not a force in this Earth that shall keep me from taking my rightful place as Firelord when the time comes.”

He almost sighs in relief.

Of course. Azula is all father needs. Even if Zuko has not been enough to keep her from disgrace, she's still worth more than two heirs

He need not worry about that.

“Still, quite a pity, what happened to him,” Zhao interrupts, his eyes unmoving from Zuko's face. “We all knew he was too soft for the throne either way.”

Zuko's heart starts beating in his ears. For once, nothing to do with father's soft touches, or the food being pushed into his mouth that's clearly meant to keep him silent. 

Does he know? Has he figured it out? Or is he simply taunting the Firelord's little whore of a wife?

What would even be worse?

If Zuko's found out, he'll be kicked out. If they find what's going with father's touches under his skirt, he'd be declared a whore. If they find out both, well, Zuko almost threw up at the thought.

Father would be forced to banish him. Without him, Zuko may as well just die.

“In fact,” Zhao starts, a jovial tone to his voice, but a predatory glint in his eyes. “Doesn't she bear a striking resemblance to our late Ursa? Why, I bet if she bore you any male children, your Majesty. They would look just like little Zuko.”

Their eyes burn on him, on his shame. 

He wants to crawl under the table and never come out, Zhao's smile is rakish, satisfied. A certain bloodlust in him. 

“What did you say her name was again, my Lord?”

Zuko's heart rings in his ears, his fingernails digging blood from his pals.

“It's Ursa,”Azula snaps, glaring at Zuko from across the table. “Quite the coincidence, isn't it? Of all the women in the Fire Nation, and father finds the one who resembles her most.”

* * *

Azula runs after her brother.

The party was a disaster, but that was to be expected when the Firelord insisted on showing up with his clearly underage wife; same who, for  _ some _ reason, just so happened to look a lot like his last bride.

The rumour mill was going a mile wide already. The opinion being that her father had found Ursa's relative of some kind, maybe her little sister, and forced her to marry him.

That's why Azula had pushed the name, she wanted him to rest in the grave he dug for himself.

Not that it would matter to nobles who'd rather live in ignorance than acknowledge something was wrong in the palace.

That's what he got for parading around her clearly distressed brother, debasing him under a table in front of the whole damn Fire Nation. 

It was sure to earn her a punishment, but she didn't care. She wouldn't be here for it.

Zuko barely even made it through the food, making some excuse about feeling sick halfway through desert and promptly running away. 

The only reason father hadn't sent an escort looking for him was likely because he didn't care or he knew he had pushed his luck enough by parading him around as long as he did.

So here Azula was, running after her brother, trying to find him before the chance they had at freedom was cut short.

Finally, she caught sight of him, running in distress towards father's rooms, his shoulders heaving in distress.

“Zuko, wait up!” She calls to him, speeding up her step to catch up to him.

Zuko stops in his track, turning to look at her slowly. His eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Azula,” he whispers almost reverently, his smile vanishing the moment hks eyes land on her bandage, again. “You shouldn't be here, father will be angry.”

“Fuck father,” she frowns, finally catching up to him and grabbing his hand. “There's not much time, we need to run before he comes back.”

She has no plan, no real idea how to get out of here. But she knows another opportunity won't present soon, she has to grab it while it lasts.

Zuko doesn't seem to think the same.

“Run? Why would I want to run?”

His words make something cold settle in her chest. 

“Why? What do you mean why?" She asks, shaking her head. “Does father treating you like his whore not ring any bells?”

That makes Zuko recoil back as if he's been struck, making Azula instantly regret her words. 

She's never been the best when it came to talking.

“It's not like that,” he shakes his head. “Father loves me.”

Her face falls. 

He doesn't even look conflicted uttering those words, if anything he looks completely convinced, appalled even, that Azula would suggest otherwise.

She's not prepared to be dealing with this.

“Zuzu, fathers don't  _ love  _ their kids this way.”

It's like the concept doesn't register to him. His face finally lighting up in an emotion familiar to her, and yet no one she expected at all. Indignation.

“How would  _ you  _ know?” He growls at her.

Azula gapes at him.

What was she supposed to say to that? She knows she's not a shining example for best relationships with parents. Father burnt half her face off, for Agni's sake. But she's not stupid, she knows this much.

The question is, why doesn't Zuko? 

“I just, do.” She struggles helplessly, not knowing how to convince her demented brother. “What about Lu Ten,” She tries, grasping at the one example they may have of a good family relationship. “Did uncle Iroh do this to him?”

She still bristles at hate for the man, but if anything, she knows he wouldn't do such a thing. And Zuko must as well, his face pinching in conflict.

“It's not the same, cousin Lu Ten was useful. I'm not.”

He says it with such confidence, and Azula knows even less how to respond to that. Because that sounds an awful lot like what she'd thought of him once. What she still finds herself thinking sometimes. She doesn't know how to approach that when she doesn't even know where she stands herself.

For some reason all she can think of is their stupid uncle and his stupid proverbs.

“And what does that have to do with anything?” She shakes her head. “If Lu Ten had ended up useless after being wounded in the war, you think Iroh would have done this to him?”

His hands bunch up in his clothes, eyes fixed on a glare at her.

“You couldn't know anything about this. You've always been better than me Azula, You can't understand that this is literally all I have left.”

There really is no time for this. If she wants to run away with him, he would probably be kicking and screaming the whole way, he would alert the guards before they have any chance to escape. She could knock him out, but he's still a good few centimeters taller than her, she would not be able to carry him the whole way.

“Maybe not,” she clenches her jaw, despair giving up to acceptance.

They won't be free tonight.

“But I won't let father keep doing this to you. I'll get you out of here, Zuko, Even if it kills me.”

* * *

Later that night, he sits at the bottom of the bed, a rag in his hands as he washes off the traces of father's come from his ass. Their undercover adventure at the party having left his inner thighs sticky with cum. 

Azula's words still resonate in his mind, making him twist his mouth in distaste. 

He loved Azula, but she didn't know anything of this. She couldn't.

Even disgraced, she's worth her title, she's still useful. All Zuko is good for is pleasuring father. Father gave him everything, even when Zuko wasn't worth it, he can't repay him that way, running off with Azula.

She was too young to understand. He just had to give her time.

“I knew I was not imagining things.”

The rag drops from his hands, his head snapping to the door. 

Commander Zhao roams his body with lustful eyes, his eyes set, with grim satisfaction, on Zuko's crotch. The shameful he had been trying to hide, clear and evident to him.

“Hello, Prince Zuko.”

The dread drops to his stomach, horror and desperation setting in in a thick slurry over his mind.

“You can't tell anyone,” he breathes, tears at the corner of his eyes. “Father will be so mad, please. You have to promise. ”

Zhao smirks. Slowly, he closes the door behind himself. Entering with measured steps into Zuko's rooms, and backing Zuko against the bed.

“My Prince, I would never think of betraying my firelord,” he responds, the tile he uses almost sending Zuko into a fit. 

A princess, not a prince, he wants to correct him. Zuko's a princess.

But there's something else. There's always something else with Zhao. And that thought alone is enough to chill Zuko to his core, making his whole body shake with dreadful anticipation.

Zhao's hand comes to tangle in Zuko's hair, and contrary to father, it fills Zuko with disgust 

“But you see,” he continues. “Nothing comes without a price. Surely you know what I mean.”

His throat grows dry. Bile in his stomach. 

He can't do that, not to father.

But father will be furious if he finds Zuko's secret has been found. 

Either way, he loses. 

There's only one way that gives him even a remote chance to keep his father's love. And it's not the one Zhao expects.

“Of course,” Zuko breathes, a cold certainty in his heart.

His hands are shaking as they come to rest in the general's belt, undoing it with practiced ease.

The weight of his cock feels unnatural in his hands.

“I always knew you would look better on your knees, my Prince.”

There is dragon fire in the back of his throat, itching to get out as he licks his lips.

He wonders if ripping it out would be too much. 

* * *

Father whips her with fire for her insolence. He gives her scars in her back that match the one in her face. 

It only helps strengthen her resolve.

Resolve she needs, because Azula knows only one more person worth the shot at contacting

It fills her with distaste to involve someone who isn't family in this, who she's not sure she can really trust. But there's no time to waste.

Zuko has no time to waste, and neither does she.

She bandages the wounds herself, and steals the strongest painkillers in the infirmary before she sneaks off. A simple midnight trip, to a mansion not even five minutes away from the palace. She carries only two small pieces of parchment this time. 

A short letter, and a simple instruction for Mai to send it.

* * *

_ To Piandao, Swordmaster and Weapon Crafter. _

_ Your services are requested with the utmost urgency at Caldera. _

_ Bring the best swords at your disposal. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright so, warnings for those who need them:
> 
> Azula being forced to take somewhat passive participation in Ozai and Zuko's nightly activities.
> 
> Zuko being forced to take a tea that is basically HRT. And using a corset.
> 
> Semi public sex/humilliation. 
> 
> Uh, attempted rape. But like, at this point is it any surprise? Followed by implications of fire in penises.
> 
> I think that's it. Pretty tame chapter tbh. 
> 
> Edit: apparently AO3 don't show works inoired by this one but here's the link anyway, because you need to see it: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593300
> 
> Feel free to leave your lovely comments pals, I really do treasure every single one of them. Hope you enjoyed this chapter and I'll see you next week!


	6. The Letters: Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From the creators of: Can Zuko get a fucking break? Get ready for: Can Azula get a fucking break?
> 
> Special thanks to Bleep Bloop for helping me with the flower meanings I needed for Piandao and Iroh's coded letters.
> 
> This chapter was really hard to write, it has a lot of hard feelings, plus sometimes I find it really hard to find the motivation I need to keep writing, but you guys keep me motivated so, this one is for you.
> 
> It's gross, and it's sad. Not necessarily in that order. More explicit warnings in the end notes. 
> 
> Hope you like it!

_ To My Dear Friend Iroh: _

_ I apologize for writing to you without warning. It's not good form for a friend to let so much time pass, only to communicate in moments of need. Yes, I seek your advice in respect to an issue of mine. _

_ Our mutual acquaintance of youth contacted me recently. Even thought, as you know, we had long since become distant after our disagreement over the matter of the lobelias in her garden. _

_ Neither of our opinions have changed, and yet I recently received notice of an invitation to work at her state once more. Were you aware of this? And if so, what is your advice?  _

_ I await your answer patiently, yet ask for a prompt response. _

_ Your dear friend, Piandao, Master Swordsman. _

* * *

“You need to hear this, my lord.” 

Ozai starts to believe he may have to kill the man sooner rather than later. 

Discretion and loyalty clearly were not valuable enough on a man so stupid as to ask repeatedly for his Firelord to visit some no name officer at the palace infermary.

“As I have told you, deal with it as you see fit. I have no time to listen to this nonsense,” He glares at the man.

He was clearly indulging his advisors too much, it wouldn't do well for them to think they could get away with their whims.

“With all due respect, your highness, I don't think you'll want him talking to anyone else after you listen to him.” 

Ozai sighs, feeling the budding itch of a headache between his brows. Perhaps he should start bringing Zuko on a leash with him at all times, it would do wonders to alleviate his tension.

“Who did you say the man was again?”

He would indulge the man, see where that led him. And when it led him down to some useless deed again, he would just have his head cut and enjoy the silent fear from the rest of his advisors.

“Admiral Zhao, your highness. He was found the night of the party, apparently jumped from one of the higher floors. They've had him in here ever since, sedated, due to the extent of his injuries and the gravity of the burns. He just woke up yesterday, so he's still not quite present. But something tells me you'd rather deal with him now, before he awakens more.”

“Burns,” he mentions with muted interest, as they make their way to the infirmary. “Didn't you say he jumped?”

“They assumed he caused them on himself after no witness came through to report otherwise; a bout of insanity. Apparently, he burnt his own manhood before jumping off."

Ozai rolls his eyes. Great, a crazy man then.

“This better be quick,” he groans.

The infirmary is, thankfully, empty. Depriving him of any tiresome necessity to perform the necessary pleasantries towards the staff. The advisor shows him towards a single room in the back of the facility. Barely a closet in size, shut tight and smelling like disinfectant and sweat.

He wrinkles his nose.

Surprisingly, when he enters, he does recognize the man in the bed. Some boot licking officer that had been hounding him at every chance he could, accosting him to try and climb his way to greatness 

Well, Ozai can at least hope for the war meetings to be less bothersome now.

The man is barely clinging to life. His whole upper body bandaged, forehead shining with sweat, lower body covered in sheet. In the sliver of space between where his bandages end, and the sheet starts, Ozai can make out raw, blustered flesh, littered with patches, charred and black. The man doesn't even look alive, his eyes glassy, muttering some nonsense under his breath.

“I thought you said he had something interesting to say,” he calls to the advisor, his patience thinning the longer he stays in this room.

“Listen closely.”

He glares at him, but decides to listen either way; leaning over to try and catch whatever nonsense the man kept muttering under his breath.

It's hard to make it out, at first, especially with how fast and erratic the man repeats it, over and over again, yet the moment he hears it, Ozai's breath catches.

“Zuko, I need to find prince Zuko, bring me prince Zuko.”

He narrows his eyes at the man, turning around to send an inquisitive stare at the advisor. 

A mad man, probably just relieving some random memory, thinking of a way to restore his honor after his shameful accident. 

“Prince Zuko is lost,” he says loudly, slowly as one would a child. “It's not your business to find him.”

The man's eyes immediately snap onto him, and before he can react, he throws himself at Ozai, pawing at him with smelly hands and animalistic mania.

“You have him! I know you have him! Bring him to me!” the man hollers savagely, right before Ozai strikes him across the face, sending him tumbling back to his disgusting bedding.

His manic screams follow him all the way out of the room.

“Where do you say he was found?” He inquires of the advisor. A cold, dangerous edge to his words.

“The east gardens sir, just outside the Princess' training grounds.”

That's right below the entrance to the wing that holds his rooms.

“Who else has heard of his ramblings?”

“Just the doctor's apprentice, sir. And one of the nurses. They believe him to be delusional.”

“Make sure it stays that way, silence them otherwise,” he orders, already going through ways to keep this hidden. “Have him gagged and sent to the dungeons, I'll deal with him later.”

He storms out before the man can say otherwise. Ozai shall give him enough time to perform the task, before he too is silenced.

Discretion was good, but that wouldn't save him when he knew too much.

After all, he thought Azula had learnt her lesson. 

How long had she planned this? Weeks? Months? What did she say to lead that man into his quarters? Had he gone too greedy, once he found the truth? Perhaps tried to take advantage of the situation? 

It pleased him to see the man trashing in pain, but it delighted him not to find her sloppy in taking care of her messes, leaving loose ends to babble around to anyone who may hear.

She was too weak still, sensitive, just like her mother. Not even appreciative of the fact he had put Zuko out of  _ her _ way to the throne, childishly attached to him. She should be thanking him, not looking for ways to sabotage him.

Perhaps, she needed to learn to stop seeing Zuko as her brother, and start seeing him as the tool he was. She was no better than him, perhaps she needed to see that too.

Zuko had learnt his place. 

But Azula was still too prideful, still believing herself smarter, more cunning. 

It was a good thing then, that he already had the perfect domesticated tool to teach her her place.

* * *

_ Dear Piandao _

_ I admit I'm as baffled by her invitation as you are. Through it is no secret you are the best at craft, our beloved acquaintance has never been one to forget slights or disagreements. _

_ I know no reason why you should reject her invitation. Although neither of us see eye to eye, I think you and her still ought to keep a good relationship, for old times sake.  _

_ I will admit, however, to remember hearing of a strange issue with her snapdragons going unhinged. I'd watch out for those in your visit, it would be ill advised for them to trip you. _

_ Be careful and observant, my old friend. Keep me informed. I do wish to know how our old acquaintance fares.  _

_ Your friend, Iroh. _

* * *

Azula's blood runs cold even before she reaches father's room.

The skin on her back is still tight and tender, just as her memories of that room. 

She knows, with grim certainty, that father has reason to punish her. She's been conspiring against him, and that is a crime he doesn'ttake lightly. Yet, she knows just as certainly that there's no way he's found her plans already.

Uncle's letters were burnt, and master Piandao is under belief that Ukano's family has simply requested his services to equip Mai with new blades. Her cover is airtight.

But if there's anything father is adept at, it's finding reasons to punish her. 

This time, when she enters, Zuko is thankfully fully clothed. He's just laying in the bedsheets, almost disinterestedly inhaling from that damned pip; while father, this time fully dressed, sits at his desk waiting for her.

She has a moment to be relieved before the dreadful anticipation sets in again. 

Father doesn't say anything for a long time, only watches her expectantly as she kneels in front of him, waiting to hear what he has to say.

He's just keeping her in line, she tells herself. Reminding her to be on her toes. She's done nothing wrong that he knows off.

“Say, Azula,” he starts, his tone slow yet hiding a certain spark of sadistic amusement. “Do you hate your sister.”

The question startles her just as much as it does Zuko. His head snaps back to them, eyes wide and suddenly looking terribly pitiful.

Azula doesn't know what the question means. Is it a test? A way to gauge her intentions?

“I don't particularly care for her,” she stays after a beat, reminding herself last minute to use the femenine pronouns.

Father humms.

“Do you enjoy shaming her, then? Expose her, for others to see? ”

She swallows. 

Does he know? Is he trying to turn this on her? And if so, why is he saying it like he even cares about what Zuko may feel? They both know he doesn't give a fuck who he  _ exposes  _ Zuko to. 

The response to that question comes from Zuko himself, shifting in the bed to hide his face from her. She manages to see his face before he turns, grimacing in pained hurt.

He's trying to turn him against her.

“That's not something I care about, father. Zuko is your business, not mine.”

Zuko should understand that she can't say her mind clearly in front of father, but she doesn't know if his mind is even clear enough to know the difference.

“Strange,” father muses, getting off the desk, striding to sit himself on the bed, and turning Zuko around so she can see his face. “Then you'll have to explain. What led you to tell that commander about you sister?”

Her breath catches in her throat.

"What commander?”

“You know which one,” he snaps at her. “The one in the infirmary, blabbing off to all who could hear, begging me to see your sister. Did you think he would help you?”

She asked no commander, looked to no one for help beyond uncle and Zuko's sword master. She knows full well she's alone in this, that any cry for help holds little chance of working out. She wouldn't just ask a random officer for it. 

Azula is smarter than that.

“Father, I know not what you speak of,” she says, for once speaking the truth.

Father will kill her for this. Had he gone impatient? Finally decided she was not worth keeping around so he staged a crime to blame her for? 

“The burn was a nice touch, though I still don't understand why. Did he get too greedy? Threaten not to help unless he got a similar treatment from the crown princess herself?”

She hears the words, but cares not what they mean.

His mind is made. Whatever Azula says makes no difference.

He can't kill her, not before she gets Zuko out of here. 

She's not strong enough now, but she's cunning, maybe she can take him on. Attack by surprise, use the full extent of her training and hope she can kill him before he gains the upper hand.

“Throwing him out of the window was sloppy, even for you Azula. Leaving loose ends like that, perhaps a similar treatment will be punishments enou-”

“I did it.” 

The sudden prescence of that voice surprises her enough that, for a moment, she doesn't even register where it came from. 

Until father turns a surprised look at her brother.

Zuko turns to him, and it's shocking for Azuka how easily he goes from looking pitiful and broken to becoming the lust ridden creature his father created. His soft eyes blinking away tears as his hands come to rest in her father's chest, a wobble on his red lips. 

“He caught me after the party father, sneaked inside on his own,” he says, every new word out of his mouth bringing panic onto Azula. “He wanted me to suck on his cock, like I do for you father. Threatened to sully your good reputation otherwise.”

Father will have his head.

“I couldn't do it father, couldn't betray you like that. So I convinced him I would, and the moment he used my mouth, I used my firebreath on him. He passed out from the pain, and I used that to drag him out, throw him over the railings.”

This palace is a nest of rats and vipers, of which her father is only the most dangerous of them all. She knows this. 

But father won't care for any judgement but his own. If he decides Zuko Is guilty of anything, she knows what punishment he has in store for Zuko will be way worse than any of what he's done before.

“He wasn't meant to survive, I'm sorry Father, I failed you.”

The room is painfully silent for a moment. Every second that passes weighting like a rock on Azula's back. 

And then, father laughs, a solid amused crackle that sparks the tiniest bit of hope Azula has for Zuko's well-being. Cruel and vicious and full of sadistic mirth.

He grabs Zuko's face between his hands and kisses him ferociously, licking his way into his mouth, pressing his body against his and swallowing back the needy moan he makes.

Azula's face reddens, her eyes dropping to the floor.

“Ah Zuko, at last, you prove yourself to be my own blood,” he breathes against his lips, the words drawing a disgusted sneer from Azula. “A cruel creature, just when I thought that your mouth was only meant for sucking.”

She breathes in relief for Zuko, but hates having to watch this. Hates to have to watch the twisted mirage of affection her father turns on Zuko. Hates to watch as Zuko brims and smiles as if this was anything more than disgusting. 

Hates the fact that Zuko looks at father like he's never looked at anyone else. Sickly sweet in love with his own father, a man who delights in twisting him and breaking him like a toy, a pet. 

“Please, don't punish Azula, father” Zuko pleads in between kisses, making Azula's head snap once more to him. “It's okay if she hates me, I deserve it.”

That's the thing, much as she wants, Azula can't bring herself to hate him. 

She hates what father has made him become.

She wants to tell him that, over and over until it registers in that fucked up head of his. 

His words, however, bring a strange look to their father's face, a clarity. A sudden realization that slowly morphes into a twisted smirk.

It reminds her of the face she used to make, right at the moment when she realized a way to torture the servants. A way to make them squirm.

“Perhaps you and your sister need some bonding time, don't you think, Zuko?” 

Dread pools in her stomach slowly, a chill running up her spine. 

She knows that tone, she knows it brings nothing good. Yet, Zuko turns to look at her, his face pinched in a hopeful look, a vulnerable need. 

“I want to make it up to her. For not being able to help,” he says, more to Azula than to father himself.

“It's true,” father nods, indulgent as if this was Zuko's idea and not his. “Even after taking her punishment, it wasn't enough to help her learn her lesson. But maybe you can make it up to her, replace the pain with pleasure.”

She's never felt so small. So helpless that it makes her squirm under her skin. She's an insect in front of a boot, with no tongue to speak of and no shield.

Father turns to her, a cruel smirk in his lips.

“Since you have nothing else to offer, I'm sure Azula would love the feel of your tongue, Zuko. I know I have.”

She gets up in a snap. Her legs shaky and barely refrained from bolting off the room. 

Her mouth feels dry.

“Surely you can't be serious,” she laughs, her face stiffly set in a smile that looks more like a grimace. “As if I'd let Zuko give me his dirty whore service.”

That's the wrong thing to say. 

Zuko's face completely falls apart. His face contorting in pain as if she had struck him. His eyes shining with brimming tears, despair and sadness invading his face. 

To her complete shock, he drops to the ground, his shoulders heaving in silent sobs as he prostrates himself in front of her, bowing with his forehead touching the floor.

“I'll be good Azula, I promise. I know I'm dirty and disgusting but I can still make it good. Give me a chance, I beg you.”

Father smirks, leaning back to look at her with grim satisfaction.

“You made your sister cry, Azula. If you find her so disgusting, you should just say it to her.”

Zuko heaves even harder at that, crawling over to her with his face still close to the ground, until he gets close enough to cling at the hem of her robe.

“Please let me make it up to you Azula, I'm good, I swear I am, please let me show it to you.”

She doesn't know what to say.

Zuko looks at her like she held his heart in her fist, able to crush or soothe it with a single squeeze of her fingers. And father enjoys it, his eyes cold yet satisfied, loving the turmoil he can feel exuding from her.

She has no options. If she leans down and tells Zuko he doesn't need to do such a thing for her, that it was never him who she blamed, father would know where her loyalty lies. But if she scorns him, he looks like his heart would be wrenched, he'd never trust her again, he already believes she despises him.

If she wants to have a chance at running away with him, she has to concede.

But she can't do it, she can't do this thing to Zuko, she just can't.

“I couldn't father,” she says, scrambling for the perfect excuse to get out of this. “Zuko is yours, isn't he? I couldn't use your property.”

She knows she's dug her own grave the moment those words leave her mouth.

He grins, spreading his legs in a way that makes his robes shift and reveal, to her horror, that he's already aroused by this.

“There's no reason why we can't both use Zuko.”

Zuko grabs her hand, gently, almost hesitantly, and places it slowly on the top of his head, making her cradle his face. He leans even closer to her, wrapping his arms around her legs, and she stumbles backwards, trying to pull away from him only to have him move closer, until she trips down over the bed.

“It's okay Azula,” he whispers with a voice broken and hoarse, laying his head on her lap. “I'm sorry this is the only way I know how to help.”

He nuzzles closer to her, like a little kitten burrowing for heat. She sits there, stumped, watching as her own brother comes to mouth through her clothes at the place between her legs.

She thinks she may want to scream, but her lips are sealed shut. 

“See Azula,” father says, watching with amusement as Zuko desperately burrows his nose into her groin. “She wants it, you'll  _ break _ her if you reject her.”

She hates father, loathes him more than she's ever been able to hate anyone else, even more than mother and uncle. Hates that he's broken Zuko to the point where he truly thinks this is a way to help.

Zuko is broken.

And Azula can't help him, can't bring herself to be strong enough to fight father.

Her fingers tangle on his hair, her jaw clenched so tight she fears one of her teeth may crack.

“Alright, Zuko. Alright.”

Maybe it's only fair she's a little bit broken too.

The bed dips from his added weight, her legs shaking as she crawls deeper into the matress.

Father looks at her with satisfaction as he rips the clothes off Zuko's body. She glares at him, eyes fixed in hate, as her brother hitches her robe, second after agonizing second, as it lifts higher up her legs, around her hips.

She bites her lips bloody as he slides off her underwear.

Zuko looks up at her from between her legs, father's hands on his hips, he takes the hand that's not currently locked in his hair, and locks his fingers with hers. She thinks his eyes are sad, but she knows not if it's because he still thinks she despises him, or because deep down he recognizes this is wrong.

He opens his red lips, burrowing closer, and drags the tip of his tongue across her slit. 

She stifles a gasp.

She feels adrift in the sea of bedsheets, enduring a pleasure that is not her own, yet slides over her skin with excruciating detail.

Zuko is strangely calm, soft. He mouths her cunt softly, sucking on her lower lips with his warm mouth, kissing her thighs, tracing circles on her hand with his thumb to get her to relax. She can't, not when she thinks she may scream if she allows her lips to open, when she can feel father's eyes on her skin if she looks away from Zuko for even a second. She stiffles a scream when his tongue, velvety smooth, finally enters her and curls at her entrance with agonizing skill.

Zuko stiffles a moan inside her, and she realizes father has entered him too, grabbing his ass with thight knuckles, pounding inside him like he wants to break through Zuko, and soil her too with his seed. Zuko's eyes lock with her, glassy with unshed tears, yet clouded with a layer of lust.

Deep inside, she wishes she could be broken as well, so she wouldn't have to live with the reality of this moment. 

He laps at her, gentle and pleasurable, and it's like nothing she's felt before, nothing like the books hidden in the library, or the tales of promiscuous girls boasting off at school. This is something much heightened and worse. 

It feels good, she wishes it hurt. She wishes it felt like fire, or lightning. Instead Zuko's tongue and lips are like the embrace of a lover she never knew before, and it sickens her that she's enjoying it even while she wants to cry.

Then, he latches in a different place, a little bud atop her entrance, and when he starts to suck on it, Azula's mouth bursts open in a high pitched moan for a second, before she clamps her mouth shut in shock.

“What's that?” father askes, looking up from pounding into Zuko and leering at her. “Did Zuko finally figure you out? She's never been with a girl before, but she's a fast learner, I'm sure she'll make sure you come. She knows what happens otherwise.”

The words make her cheeks lit up in shame. She shivers in rage, wishing so hard she could just reach out and burn him, burn him till he was not but ashes. Burn him for doing this to her, doing it to Zuko. 

Deep down, she also wishes to burn herself for spasming in pleasure as Zuko continues his efforts in vigor. Working her like an instrument, pulling sounds out of her she didn't know she could make.

He looks up at her from between his dark lashes, gently, proud at each new sound he pries from her. She supposes this is good for him, in his mind, he's helping her feel better, he's doing her a favor. He thinks he's helping.

She wants to hate him, but she can't. Not when he may be the last person in this damned castle who remotely gives a fuck about her.

So Azula does the only thing she can think of, she uses the hand tangled in his hair and pushes him closer, allowing her mouth to release all those terrible sounds even at the taunts of her own father, even if they make her want to die. 

She pushes him closer, and bucks her hips against his face, rides his tongue though every burst of pleasure and let's herself try to see the happiness in his eyes as something good. When she finally comes, her back arching in pleasure with a scream torn from her throat, she's glad, she's glad for it to finally end. 

Zuko separates from her, his lips shiny and wet, his body still being wrecked by father's thrusts. But he wraps his arms around her hips and lays his head in her stomach.

“Thanks, Lala.” he says. For one moment, he sounds like her brother.

All she can do is run her fingers through his hair, holding him through the increased roughness of father once he realizes he's got Zuko all to himself again. She just sits there with him, and forces herself not to scream herself hoarse through every minute.

* * *

_ To Master Piandao, Swordsman _

_ Your prescence is required at the Royal Courtyard of the Palace. Our most honorable Firelord has requested your service at the martial court of disgraced Commander Zhao. _

_ Apologies for the short notice. Bring your sharpest sword.  _

_ -Head of Staff, Li Wei. _

* * *

Piandao walks into the courtyard with the tired acceptance of a man who despises his current predicament, yet isn't surprised to.be found in it.

After all, there's little reason for a swordsman to be called into a martial court with only a sword in times of war. 

An execution. 

He'd been in this same position multiple times before, to the point it no longer nauseates him to carry the task. Even if taking a life is still one of the last things he wants to do.

Specially one doomed by their recently crowned Firelord.

The palace is a den of vipers, and Ozai had long since shaped himself to be the sharpest one of them. It surprised Piandao little when he heard of his sudden ascension to the throne, and it only made it easier, knowing that Zuko and his mother managed to get out before that. The man had been a spine on his side, ever since he and Iroh had become acquaintances. His distaste of him had been the reason why, after learning his favorite student was gone, Piandao had moved back to his hometown and vowed never to return unless strictly necessary.

Yet here he was again.

The courtyard is already full when he arrives, a sizable number of soldiers, generals and officers already formed in line. 

To Piandao's surprise, they look confused, wary.

The Fire Nation of today is nothing if not blood thirsty. To see it's own men look so uneasy when none of them is even the accused, it's unnerving. Forecoming of nothing good 

He hurries over to head of staff Li Wei, a man who looks both stressed and exasperated yet manages to show relief when catching sight of him.

“Finally, I feared you wouldn't arrive on time.” Li Wei says, rushing him to the front of the yard. “I really do apologize for the short notice, but the Firelord called specifically for you. This whole arrangement took us all by surprise, I wasn't sure you would make it.”

Truth be told, neither was Piandao. He'd barely made it into the city a day before. He'd assumed it was enough for voice of his arrival to spread, but for the Firelord to call personally for him? It bodes nothing good.

Not that he could say any of it to the people of the palace. Whatever Ozai wanted of him, Piandao was sure he would make him know.

“What about the accused, is there anything you can tell me?” He asks Li Wei instead, hoping to gain any insight possible before he has to carry the deed he was invited for.

Li Wei shakes his head with a conflicted twist of the mouth.

“Like I said, rushed. From what I heard the soldiers say though, it's bad. Really bad.”

If there's anything else to be said, the man keeps it shut; and before Piandao can ask him another question, the courtyard falls into silence. From the far corner, a heavily armed and ornate palanquin enters the yard.

Ozai did always have a flare for the dramatic.

He frowns, however, at the second shadow, sitting next to Ozai inside the palanquin.

“That's the Firelord's wife,” Li Wei answers for Piandao before he has a chance to ask. “A recent development, heard it was a private ceremony. A bit strange to see him bring her here though, she usually stays pretty secluded.”

A strange sight indeed.

It's barely been a little over a year since Zuko and Ursa left. He knew the two were never really close and yet, it's a bit odd even for Ozai, to have taken another wife so soon after. He'd never been one to seek other people's company.

A mistress, perhaps?

The palanquin is dropped down on first row, the curtains opened by a number of servants. To Piandao's disappointment, he doesn't get to have a good look at the woman, her face shrouded by her long black hair and the angle at which he finds himself looking from. 

Furthermore, the girl - who really, can't be older than sixteen - clings to Ozai's in a way no sane person would want to. The pipe in her right hand providing somewhat of an explanation to him.

“Bring the prisoner!” Calls one of the soldiers standing next to the palanquin.

This is the moment in which Piandao really squares himself for the worse.

Turns out, it's not enough.

He's seen enough tortured men in his life, men mangled by the war, by their enemies and even their own comrades.

Disgraced Commander Zhao manages to be nothing like them, and at the same time a whole new terrible thing altogether.

From the moment he enters the courtyard, more than one man has to turn away in disgust and nausea. The disgraced officer bears no clothes, except for the filth and grime clinging to him in patches of dirt, his arms and legs hanging in awkward positions, as if broken and left to heal wrong. His smell, pungent and sickly seems to wash over the crowd, making those who had not turned over already wrinkle their nose in distaste.

Yet none of that comes close to the sight of his loins. Piandao doesn't consider himself a queasy man, but the sigh of another male's mangled and charred manhood is enough to make the strongest man lightheaded. The flesh is red and inflamed, what's not raw and bleeding, consumed by infection and pus.

Even now, the man seems to be quieting screams against the gag in his mouth, crunched tightly enough to be cutting onto his cheeks, and bruising the skin of his face.

Suddenly, Piandao regrets having come back to Caldera.

Yet, Ozai only watches with grim satisfaction as the man is dragged over to the center of the yard for everyone's attention, letting the whole public take a look at the mangled man before he even deigns himself to speak.

“I have called for your presence here today, to witness the punishment of this human waste.” He begins, letting his grimly satisfied voice wash over the public. “To make of him an example of what is meant to happen to those who dare touch what's is mine alone.”

The men shift awkwardly, looking at one another with ill conceived fear. It's no wonder, Piandao himself feels like he's just stumbled into something far worse than he expected. A show concocted by a madman that is clearly more far gone than he expected.

“Commander Zhao here, dared break into my rooms not so many weeks ago, searching to betray his Firelord by laying his hands onto my wife. ”

There's a stifled communal gasp.

“My dear wife, as some of you may realize, showed him what's meant to happen to those who defy me. Yet, I have decided that further punishment is in order.”

Piandao is not surprised at this, yet he grinds his teeth in remorse. The man clearly is not innocent, yet this whole affair brings too many unwanted memories to the surface. Too fast a reminder of the sadism of the Fire Nation now.

He's only happy Zuko and his mom got out of here before they had to witness this.

The Firelord however, enjoys the gasps of shock and horror, revels in the attention it brings him, and lets the fear fester with a grin, holding his obviously inebriated new wife close to his chest before he utters his next words.

“After much thinking, I have found an adequate punishment for him,” he cards his fingers through the woman's hair, in a gesture that would look gentle, instead of possessive, to anyone who didn't know him half as well as Piandao. “Since he clearly doesn't use it wisely, he shall be stripped of his manhood, and thongue, then sodomized by his full fleet in the presence of this court. If he survives, I may consider allowing him to return to service, as a simple soldier, under the command the same fleet that used to be his.”

Piandao feels nauseated.

It's such an unashamed show of sadism that, while coming from someone he knew was capable of a lot, completely shakes him with the earnestness of it. Piandao knew Ozai, he knew the man was unhinged and cruel, but he had thought, at least, that he kept the sickest parts of himself under lock and key, hidden from the public. For him to do such a thing in the open, to be gawked at as a show of dominance, it made Piandao wonder what else he was capable of behind closed doors.

He can tell he's not the only one feeling this way, but there's a lot to say about the power of intimidation. Not one man says a thing, they don't even dare look as sickened as the situation calls for.

If the man was guilty of what Ozai charged him of, then it was at least in part justified, that much Piandao tried to remind himself of. Yet, it's the satisfied look in his eyes, the delighted glint in his eyes as the accused trashes with renown fear, and Ozai just leans closer, caressing the side of his wife's face as if mocking the man. That's what truly makes Piandao feel sickened and dirty.

Furthermore, the wife seems to perk up at the screams of horror from the accused, leaning over to plant thrilled kisses to Ozai's cheek like an overeager wolfhound puppy.

Piandao doesn't want to judge a woman he doesn't know, least of all one burdened with being chained to a man such as Ozai. But a part of him wonders if the sick bastard finally found a woman as twisted as him. The girl looked young, inebriated, and she did have a reason to be happy. Yet, there's just something… off, about her, a certain unrepressed madness he can feel from where he stands. It makes him wonder what kind of soul would willfully thrilled and enthusiastic about a man's castration and gang rape.

“What are you waiting for?” Ozai asks, returning his wife's eager kisses with a sloppy wet one that makes Piandao want to gag. “Begin with the cock.”

A part of Piandao wants to refuse, walk out and refrain from being part of this madness once more. But a second part of him, weary and tired, tells him it's got no use but his own personal moral satisfaction. If he doesn't do it, then someone else will, more inexperienced and sloppy, causing more pain than the necessary. If he does this now, Ozai may yet think he has him under his thumb, his cover may yet remain solid.

He unsheathes his sword.

The soldiers mahandle the man onto his knees, kick at his thighs until he gives in, and then crush his member between the sole of a boot.

Piandao gives himself no time for regret, he swings fast and precise. 

The give is different from a severed head, easier. The screams that follow are not.

His boots are sprayed with blood, his sword dirtied. He still has to cut the man's thongue. Maybe he'll melt the blade after this, trade it for funds for his trip back home. 

He does not look at the suffering man as the soldiers take off the gag and pull at his tongue with pliers. The only moment he looks, it's to give one last swing, and cut through the wriggling muscle.

It is no secret that Piandao, like everyone else on that was invited to this courtyard, is to stay and witness the punishment of the disgraced Commander, but no one can force him to actually stare at the gruesome show of the man's rape. So, when the soldiers give their first, tentative steps towards their former leader, Piandao turns his head away.

The sight of the Firelord is not much better.

The disgusting bastard is occupied, pawing at his young bride through her clothes, hitching her skirt for everyone to see as he gropes her thighs.

It's an obscene expectacle, and not one he expected for a lady to be in agreement with. Even now, he can start hearing the screams of pain, mixed in with the slapping of flesh and the sickening squelch of the blood. Yet that only seems to serve as incentive.

More than one person in the courtyard seems pale in the face, turning away with faces that can't decide whether to be embarrassed or nauseated. 

If this is what the Fire Nation has become, he needs to inform Iroh as soon as possible, their efforts to end the war need to go quicker. Before Ozai's last shred of sanity snaps.

He tries to avert his eyes, but there's no better picture to be found in this scenery. Not when the other option is a man covered in blood, raped by multiple men while choking on his own blood.

So, Piandao watches to his own disgust, as Ozai wrenches the woman onto his lap and grinds his hips against hers, growing more unhinged as the screams rise in crescendo.

He thinks this may be it, for surely even Ozai would not go so shameless as to take his own woman in a hall of dozens while a man is tortured. 

He's wrong.

Ozai throws the woman onto her stomach and hauls her back by the legs, hitching her skirt and shifting his own robes just enough to impale her, right there for everyone to see.

Piandao closes his eyes, turning away. 

Then a raspy moan catches his attention.

He turns back, frowning in confusion. Wondering why in the name of Agni that sound seems so familiar to him.

The woman moans and wails to Ozai's brutal coupling, rocking back against his touch, unhinged and wild with desire. Piandao knows there's no way he would know her, knows that there's no way for her to be a past lover of his. He can't find a reason why he would recognize those sounds.

So he draws closer, almost bound by a thrall.

And it uncoils like a blooming flower of chilled cold horror in his chest, petal after petal of horrible truth unfolding in a slow torturing sequence.

The hair is long, the silhouette wrong. 

Yet, there's that baby fat at the cheeks that still didn't quite go away.

There's that satisfied smile so similar to the one he did when he got a technique right.

That voice that always seemed too weathered for someone his age.

The golden eyes of a student he remembered with nothing but fondness.

Sweet, stubborn Zuko, sodomized by his father in front of dozens of soldiers while a man accused of trying to rape him is brutally tortured, amd raped for the eyes of everyone.

Piandao no longer cares if he's meant to stay inside the courtyard.

He moves, first stumbling then with renewed hurry through the throes of people, crashing into some and stepping on another, and runs until he makes it out of their eyes, up to the banister, where he leans to puke his heart out.

Hot acid bile burns at his throat and tears through his lips, but he cares not, when there's only one single thing in his mind, a horrified chant made out of a single word repeated in his head.

Zuko, Zuko, Zuko, Zuko.

He wants his eyes to be lying, he wants his mind to be lying.

But he's not stupid nor delusional, and it's been little more than a year since he last saw that boy, not to recognize him at a time like this.

Agni, it's been only  _ a year. _

Something like this, no, this can't have happened in only a year. 

What is wrong with this nation? What is wrong with Ozai? How could that disgusting, horrid, putrid waste of humanity have done this to  _ him?  _ His own son, the kid Iroh loved like his own, the kid Piandao taught over countless evenings where he got to know him more than even his own family.

Agni, what has he allowed to happen by running away?

Cold fury rips through his body with a passion that surprises even him. 

He can't do this, he can't just stand this and let himself be washed away by guilt while that kid is tortured and destroyed by his own father.

He gets up, ready to take his sword and march back there for the kid, when a crunch of paper falling on the stone floor calls his attention.

He frowns, bending over to catch the piece of paper that had seemingly fallen from his own robe. It's not his, so it's clearly something that had been planted on him, probably at some point during the gruesome show at the courtyard. 

Quickly, he reads the letter, going through the contents with increasingly more irritation in his heart.

The paper crunches under his fist.

Fine.

Whoever sent this better be ready to explain a lot of things. If they wanted to keep their heads above their shoulders 

* * *

_ Master Piandao. _

_ When you read this letter, it's likely you've already become aware of the real reason why you were summoned to Caldera. _

_ Your summons here was not as a simple job task, but as a plea for help. Help for someone I'm sure you've become aware needs you now more than ever. _

_ Meet me at the armory below the royal chambers, the location of which I'm sure you know if your correspondence with a certain general is to be believed. Be there no later than three hours after the sun has set. Be silent, be invisible. I'll explain more when we meet. _

_ Your student's life depends on it. _

* * *

Minutes before their meeting, Azula starts to fear asking Piandao to meet her was a mistake.

Her entire self feels like it's falling apart. She's barely been able to sleep more than a few hours each night, the time she's not able to fill with her duties, filled by her compulsive need to train over and over.

At this point, her obedience to father has become obsessive, instead of a mere plea for survival. A pitiful attempt on her part for him to  _ stop.  _ Stop thinking she needed to be  _ taught a lesson. _

She knows if this ends in disaster, she may as well fall apart and try to take father down herself in a fit of mad rage.

Because if she has to meet Zuko once more, only for father to perverse their encounter, she thinks she may go insane.

He's just gonna be another coward, her mind says, bitter and sour with contempt. He's seen what father did to Zhao, he's seen what he did to his son, he'd rather save his own skin than try to save a boy so far gone he'd rather be his father's whore.

She'll kill him. She knows she will, if he opts to run out.

She wishes she could kill uncle, that waste of human life. How dare he? How dare he!

Maybe it will be much merciful, way easier to take her life and Zuko's with hers.

She hopes it makes them mad. They deserve to feel at least a sliver of what she does. The rage, the shame, the stupid helplessness. 

The door to the armory opens, and Azula rushes to the shadows, biting her own tongue to bring herself back to reality, away from the storm of her own loathing and rage, and back to the world where there's a bare sliver of hope for her and Zuko.

“Do you come alone?” She asks, surveying the man as he closes the door behind himself, scouring him for weapons.

“I do,” he says. She thinks she hears a sliver of rage in his otherwise truthful words. 

Good, he's ought to feel angry.

“Do you know who invited you here?”

The man narrows his eyes, angling himself, if just slightly, to the direction of her voice. His whole posture rigid, barely restrained.

“From the young voice and my memory, am I right to assume this is princess Azula speaking?”

She shifts slightly, preparing herself for her next words.

”You are.”

The man remains, silent, his face clenching in a grimace of anger.

“Have you come to gloat?”

His words are so sharp and cutting that for one moment, Azula feels as if they've beaten the air out of her. Not with hurt, but by the sheer amount of absolute rage it induces on her. She stomps out her hiding spot, striding up to the man with wide angry steps, holding her head up high to give him the best damned look possible at the scar covering half of her face.

“Tell me exactly what is there to gloat about!”

He stumbles back as if hurt, and at last that brings satisfaction to her. Good, let him be afraid of her, let him see what happens when you're stupid enough to believe things won't happen is you close your eyes to them. She wants them to be horrified, they deserve to be horrified.

“Did you think Zuzu was the only one father decided to fuck with?” She snarls.

There's pity in his eyes, as he slowly pieces things together, and it sickens her, she wants none of his pity. None of it. Yet it seems to wash over him like a lunch to the gut, his legs giving up to sit, stumped, onto one of the many crates or the armory.

“Azula, what happened here. What has your father done?”

It chokes a laugh out of her. Bitter and dry.

“Mother left, he became Firelord. What else do you want to know?”

“I was gone for a year, Azula! He was supposed to be with his mother! How did your father do this to him in only a year!”

It brings such strange realization from her. To know how this must look to outside eyes. Because, to Azula, it has been a silent hell of walking on burning coals and forcing herself to not make a sound. While they have been standing right in front of her torture, and made themselves believe she was fine.

“A year is enough,” she growls.

Father didn't even wait to be Firelord to start making Zuko into his little doll. She knows, she had questioned the servants assigned to him, before their execution. Zuko was broken and remade and broken again and patched over like some twisted toy handled by a sadistic toddler.

This man, the only one who had answered, the only one who looked remotely interested in helping. He didn't know half of it. Azula wouldn't tell him, not until he proved deserving of it.

“We need to call your uncle, Azula.”

She turns to glare at him, even more bottled up rage rising to the surface of her mind with renown strength.

“You think I didn't try that already!? I told him everything, I told him what father was doing to Zuko, and he refused to come! He refused to believe anything wrong!”

“He did what!?”

That at least does bring a smile to her lips. Let the old man be seen for the coward he really is. Pathetic and cowardly and useless. 

“As far as I'm concerned he forfeited his rights to give a fuck about Zuko the moment he refused to come.”

“Listen, Azula,” he pinches his brow, looking by all accounts as if he just aged a couple decades in a matter of hours, yet still irritating her with the patronizing tone he uses her. “I'll kick Iroh's ass myself when I see his face, but if we want a chance to not only get Zuko out of here, but give Ozai the fate he deserves, we need to bring your uncle here. I know you're talented, and with help I know we would find a way to at least snuggle Zuko out of this palace. Believe, there's nothing else I'd rather be doing right now. But what happens after? Your father has a hand in every corner of the globe, and the places he doesn't will kill us the moment they see we are fire nation. Iroh the only bending master we know who even stands a chance of defeating your father.”

Azula knows his words are true. She knew it even before he had to say it, but that doesn't mean she likes them even a little bit. She loathes Uncle, hates him with a strength only trumped by the hate she held for mother and father. 

“I knew it,” she hisses, her jaw locked painfully tight. “I knew you were a coward, you're no help at all.”

She's ready to leave, deeming this whole situation useless. 

Piandao stops her, a hand to his arm that sends a jolt of fear through her body, making her yank her arm with so much strength that she hits it against the wall with a pained grunt.

  
  


He looks at her with that terrible pity that makes her squirm, makes her want to punch him.

She's not defenceless, she's not a fucking victim. She's stronger then he realizes, stronger than him.

“Azula, I  _ want _ to help. But we need to do this right, for Zuko.”

For Zuko.

These days, it seemed the only thing she wanted was to scream.

“What do you have in mind?”

* * *

_ To my dear friend Iroh. _

_ I'm sorry to tell you that our friend's garden has grown more unhinged than either of us expected. _

_ The Lobelias, like I expected, have grown out of control. The snapdragons, I fear, have become the least of her problems. Even worse, it seems she has not removed the Jasmine from her yard, as we thought she did. I fear it may soon rot and perish. _

_ She's in dire need of a gardener. I don't suppose you know one? _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:
> 
> Zhao's charbroiled penis. 
> 
> Forced noncon. As in, two people who have no way to consent being forced into sex stuff. 
> 
> Brief mentions of suicidal thoughts.
> 
> Graphic descriptions of a fried dick getting cut off, then a tongue, and then said person getting gangraped with a public.
> 
> Also public sex. 
> 
> This one wasn't so tame. Ozai said: hmm, I feel hypocritical today. Time to torture wannabe rapists.
> 
> Please do leave comments, they give me strength. And check me out at @TangerineSock in Tumblr. Im always up for DMs and asks. 
> 
> Hope you liked it!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Prince No More](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27593300) by [paintedbluerose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedbluerose/pseuds/paintedbluerose)




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